One Art
by Sisyphean Effort
Summary: Who knew that something as simple as a single photograph could be so dangerous? Mello/Near eventually. ON HIATUS.
1. Prologue: Photograph

_Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or any of its characters._

One Art

Prologue: Photograph

"This place is a fucking pigsty, O'Malley."

"Don't care, Ari..."

"Why don't you ever clean up? Or at least hire someone else to-it's not like you can't afford it, for god's sake. Gah-what is _that_?"

O'Malley didn't bother getting off the couch, didn't bother to go look and see what it was Arianna was banging on about. So what if his apartment was a complete wreck? He had more important things on his mind, and 'domestic duties' didn't even make the bottom of the list. Besides, he didn't like the idea of some stranger coming in here and touching his stuff. Especially his photos.

"I don't want some stranger in here touching my stuff," O'Malley muttered from his slumped position on the couch, echoing the words inside his own head. With effort, he slid forward and grabbed a bottle of Jack from the coffee table and poured a healthy dose of it into a cup of coke.

Ari swiveled her head at the sound. "Jesus, O'Malley-it's not even one o'clock yet!"

"Don't judge, Ari," said O'Malley, drinking from the cup. He made a face and stared at it. The coke had gotten too warm.

"Someone needs to-" said Ari darkly.

"-I have the whole Christian right for that," O'Malley interjected.

"Oh, I'm not talking about that," said Ari, jabbing her finger towards the couch. "I'm talking about your 'lifestyle' choices here-"

"-It's either a 'bottle in front of me' or a 'frontal lobotomy,' Ari. So get over it," O'Malley had slumped back down in the couch, and he knew that Ari couldn't even see the top of his head from her position behind the architect's drafting table by the wall, the table which served as his work space.

"You are a walking, talking cliche of a drunken Irishman, you know that?" said Ari from across the room.

"You forgot 'bad-tempered,'" added O'Malley with a smirk. Against his better judgement, he took another swig of the Jack and coke. And promptly made another face.

O'Malley lifted his cup high enough in the air so Ari could see it over the back of the couch. "Be a love and get me some ice, will you?"

"I'm not your fucking Jeeves, O'Malley. Get it yourself."

O'Malley twisted around and gazed over the back of the couch toward the stern-faced brunette with the silver nose-piercing standing beside the drafting table. "You're a cold, hard woman, Ari."

"Why? Just because I don't coddle you like everyone else?" said Ari. But the cruelty of her words was softened by a slight smile. "C'mon-we're running out of time here. We have to pick the photos for your next book. Make some final decisions. Soon. The editor's breathing down my neck."

"An artist doesn't care about deadlines," murmured O'Malley, his eyes closed and his head lolling back.

"You'll care when they sue the bejezus out of us. C'mon!" Ari picked up a large glossy photo depicting two naked men, one pale and one dark, their bodies curved around one another, creating the illusion of a yin-yang symbol. "What about this one?" asked Ari.

"Eastern religion at its finest," said O'Malley, barely glancing over at his own work.

"What about this one?" said Ari, holding up another black-and-white. This time the picture was of a single nude man, shot from the back, lying across a grand piano, it's high, glossy surface contrasting beautifully with the pale matte of his skin. The sculpted muscles of his back had been painted with guitar strings, turning him into a second musical instrument.

O'Malley reluctantly craned his head. "Oh, that was supposed to be a sort of tribute to Man Ray," he said absently.

"Yes, I can see that," huffed Ari impatiently. "But do you want it in the book? C'mon, O'Malley, I could use a little feedback here. These are your pictures, after all."

O'Malley could hear the scratching sound of photo paper being lifted, shifted. His head was killing him, and while he appreciated Ari's dedication-she was the best agent/adviser/handler that a deviant, alcoholic photographer could ever ask for-he found himself wishing that she would just go away. Go away and just leave him alone. He didn't feel like dealing with his own work today. His mood was decidedly too black.

"Oh, wow..." He heard Ari exclaim from the drafting table. Then: "When did you do this?"

"Do what?" muttered O'Malley, who reluctantly turned around to see what Ari was talking about. He gripped the back of the couch and squinted over it at the large black-and-white photograph that Ari held up in her hands.

The picture was of a young man with long, blond hair, his sinuous form draped, supine, across what looked to be the top of a bar. The photo had been shot from the side, placing the subject in profile. He was clothed from head to toe in shiny, tight black leather and he was blindfolded. A dark, beaded rosary glinted on his chest. A tattoo of a snake slithered its way up the side of his neck, stretching up toward a bright, shiny apple the young man held between his lips. The biblical symbolism was clear. And, more than that, it was dark, edgy, erotic, and-

"-Totally hot!" proclaimed Ari with an evil Cheshire cat's grin. "Classic O'Malley. Like the stuff you did back in your younger days; the stuff the Right used to burn you down for. Back when they christened you the Gothic Mapplethorpe, the Ansel Adams of bondage. Oh, I'm definitely putting this one in-"

"-No,no,no,no,no!" yelled O'Malley, scrambling over the back of the couch, almost falling face first onto the floor. He reached the drafting table and snatched the photo out of Ari's hands. "You can't put that one in," he said in an almost panicked tone.

"Geez, what the fuck, O'Malley?" said Ari, gazing down at her now empty hands.

"I'm not supposed to have that," he said cryptically. He took the photo and shoved it inside one of the binders shelved above the drafting table. "And I promised not to show it to anybody," he muttered to himself, rubbing his face with both hands.

Ari stared at him as if he'd turned lunatic. Her eyes raked him critically. Wild, strawberry-red hair stuck out in all directions and there were dark shadows beneath his almond-shaped, hazel eyes. "You look like five miles of bad road, you know that?" she said. Then, in a somewhat softer tone: " Why don't you take a shower and try drinking some coffee?"

"Uh...maybe," he answered uncertainly.

"No. No 'maybes.' Just go." And here, Ari shoved him in the direction of his bathroom. Then, as a sort of compromise, she said, "I'll even put the coffee on for you."

O'Malley glanced at her suspiciously. He must really look terrible if Ari was actually trying to mother him. But the shower and the coffee did sound good...

"Alright, I'm going," he said, walking, in not quite a straight line, toward the bathroom.

"I'll get the coffee then," Ari called after him. But she didn't move to go to O'Malley's kitchen area. What she did, instead, was take the binder down from the shelf-the binder that O'Malley had shoved the serpent-and-apple picture in-and she took the photo out.

"Too good to leave out," she murmured over the glossy image, and quickly tucked the picture into her own portfolio case.

_ What O'Malley didn't know, surely wouldn't hurt him..._

End Prologue

_Author's Note: The title is taken from the Elizabeth Bishop poem of the same name._


	2. Chapter 1: Encounter

Chapter 1: Encounter

_6 months earlier..._

The Symposium, from the outside, didn't seem so very impressive. It looked like an other square brick building on its block: rust-red, plain, and unassuming. But inside was a whole different story. The bottom floor of the building housed a large book store and cafe, the second floor contained a well-stocked art supply shop, and the top floor-which was mostly left as a wide open space-was used as a gallery for various showings.

The Symposium was a well-known meeting place for bibliophiles, artists, and other creative minds.

The old-fashion shop bell on the front door chimed merrily as O'Malley blew in, dressed in his ever-present pea coat and dark shades, his flame-colored hair spiked out in all directions. He looked hung-over, but in fact was not. His appearance just gave the impression that he was. He marched past one of the store's massive twin columns-columns that had been decked out and made to look like two giant, spiraling towers of books-and entered the shop's cafe. He scraped back a chair and plopped down at a table where a young man wearing a beanie cap sat drinking coffee. The young man peered over at O'Malley through a pair of blue, square-framed glasses and said: "Are you hungover?"

"What? No. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because you look it. And nine times out of ten, you usually are."

O'Malley ripped the dark frames from his face and tossed them onto the table. "There-better?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Hey, O'Malley," called a girl in a black apron and white button-down shirt. "You having your usual?"

"Yes," he answered in the general direction of the cafe's counter. Belatedly he answered, "Thanks, Miriam."

"So polite today. Very good manners," said the man in the beanie cap. But O'Malley didn't miss the tone underneath the words, and wasn't the least bit surprised by the next outburst.

"So...where were you Saturday night?"

"Listen Danny-"

"No! You listen. You said you'd be there, and I was counting on you. I really could have used those pictures-"

"-Look, I'm sorry-"

-No, you're not. You are so goddam unreliable, you know that? If you didn't want to do the gig, you should have just said."

O'Malley stared guiltily at Danny's guitar case which stood propped against the wall. It's not like he'd missed the gig on purpose; he hadn't meant to break his word. But after spending the night shooting Souljacker's gig the day before, he just hadn't felt...up to it. The thought of standing near a bunch of blaring amps-two nights in a row-made his ears want to start bleeding. Hell, he hadn't gotten the ringing out of his ears from that last show.

"So I'm a jerk," O'Malley admitted.

"Yes, you are," agreed Danny.

_Okay, _thought O'Malley, _I've screwed up here. _ So Souljacker was a high-profile-and even higher-paying-band. But Danny was a friend_, _a friend that he'd obviously let down. Basically, the situation called for some extensive grovelling...

"Black with an extra shot," chirped Miriam, clinking a large mug with a Greek building etched on the side of it down in front of him. Saved by the coffee.

O'Malley felt around inside his pea coat._ Shit!_ He had forgotten his wallet again. At least he had the good sense to look mortified as he asked, "Uh, Danny..."

Danny glared at him, slowly shaking his head. He muttered the word "prick" under his breath as he pulled out his wallet and took out some ones to hand to Miriam. O'Malley shrugged apologetically.

The bell on the shop door chimed and the door clattered open...

"I saw that article about you in Black and White Photography magazine," said Miriam, who was hovering and speaking in what could only be termed a 'gushing' manner. It was enough to make Danny roll his eyes and mouth the word "groupie" at O'Malley from across the table. "They did a really cool analysis on your 'Nine Muses' series," continued Miriam, "about the iconography you use in your pictures..."

O'Malley's attention wandered as he caught a random flash of black out of the corner of his eye...

"...of course, one reviewer said that you were nothing but a flashy provocateur..."

"And they would be right," mumbled O'Malley absently, as he turned his head to follow the progress of the boy who'd just entered the cafe area.

_Oh_ _Holy Mother,_ _just look at him..._

O'Malley watched the beautiful blond boy as he wandered up to the front counter. He looked like a dark angel that had been dropped down from heaven, something that God himself would have found too hot to handle. The boy was an obvious winner in the genetic lottery-graced with fine bones, full lips, and long, cat-like eyes. Basically, the kind of features that just rubbed O'Malley the right way. And, as if that weren't enough, he was dressed in black leather. _Tight_ black leather. And O'Malley was a sucker for black leather. But the detail that hooked him, that drew him in fully, was the glint of a red and black rosary that the boy wore around his neck. That simple contrast, that one tiny symbol of faith against all that beautiful, sinful material called to O'Malley like a shiny object calls to a magpie...

It was obvious that O'Malley had completely stopped paying attention to Miriam's prattling. Danny followed the photographer's captured gaze over to the counter, to the boy standing in front of it. Then Danny leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms and said, "Oh, Jesus. Here we go..."

Miriam was still talking, oblivious to everything that was happening in the room.

The boy in leather, seeing that there was no one behind the counter, began to look around the cafe. And, spotting Miriam in her black apron, he slowly approached O'Malley and Danny's table.

O'Malley tried not to stare outright as the boy stopped not three feet away from him.

"Excuse me, can I get some service over here?" the boy said in a low, scratchy voice, a voice that was a lot deeper than O'Malley expected.

_Hmmm, better and better..._

Miriam reluctantly stopped talking and put on her best 'happy-to-help' smile. "Sure. What do you want?"

"A mocha. Hot. With extra chocolate." the boy answered curtly.

Both Miriam and the boy turned to go back to the front counter. And that's when O'Malley reached out and grabbed the boy by the arm.

The boy stared at the hand on his arm; his look was almost murderous. But O'Malley pushed on undaunted. "Look, I'm a photographer with a studio here in town," he said, taking out a card and holding it out to the boy. "I'm always looking for new people to shoot. And you have an interesting look-"

-O'Malley ignored the snicker he heard coming from Danny's direction.

"Why don't you come by sometime?" asked O'Malley, his tone hopeful as he stared longingly into the boy's mesmerizing turquoise eyes. He willed him to accept the invitation. The boy took his card, turned it over, and looked at it. Then his expression suddenly went...dark.

"No thanks," said the boy coldly. He then shrugged off O'Malley's hand and flicked the card onto the table. O'Malley and Danny both watched in amazement as the boy turned and walked away to the counter.

Danny waited until the boy was well out of earshot before giving into hyena-like peals of laughter. O'Malley found himself glaring bloody daggers at the musician as he cackled himself straight into a coughing fit. "Oh man-that was so sweet!" said Danny in between wheezes. "Really! The great O'Malley actually got _shot down_! Oh, I never thought I'd live to see the day. This has got to be karma in action..."

"Go on, laugh it up, asshole," muttered O'Malley. But it was true-O'Malley wasn't used to being shot down. Ever. Not when he offered to photograph someone. His camera was the best fucking aphrodisiac on the planet. _Everyone_ wanted to be in front of it...

Which made O'Malley wonder: what was so special about this boy that he didn't want to do it?

And then a second thought: why did he give such a damn about it anyway?

End Chapter 1.


	3. Chapter 2: Pursuit

Chapter 2: Pursuit

The Two Pence Pub was small, dark, and crowded. It's ornate drop ceiling with faux metal tiles covered in fleur-di-lys gave one the impression of being below ground. Or, if you were claustrophobic, of being trapped inside a very small box. It was meant to be intimate. All dark wood and flickering candle light and a bar area almost too small to be believed. There were mirrors behind the bar, true, but they did almost nothing to create the illusion of more space. Probably because they were mostly covered up by a large collection of stein mugs, all made to look like the heads of British royalty and other various English historical figures. Churchill, Queen Elizabeth (I and II), Henry VIII, Margaret Thatcher, and Shakespeare were all hanging out together in ceramic bliss behind the beer taps. A wilted British Flag-also covering half the mirror-and a large stuffed bull dog wearing a bobby's uniform topped off the back bar's somewhat questionable decor.

"You think Margaret Thatcher ever drank lager?"

A punch to the arm jarred O'Malley out of his reverie. "Pay attention, O. Not everything's about booze," said the young man sitting next to him, who went by the first? last? name of Sherman. He was short and stodgy, with black curly hair hidden beneath a plaid golfer's cap. What O'Malley thought of as a 'fat guy's hat.' "I was talking about that picture of St. John the Baptist Cathedral-it wasn't too overdone, was it?"

O'Malley wanted to say that a canvas that fucking big was going to look overdone no matter what, but what he said instead was, "I thought it was very Caspar Friedrich." O'Malley often spoke in short blurbs when it came to other artist's works. Because everyone enjoyed a good blurb. And a blurb which compared the artist to an even better artist was especially good. O'Malley could "blurb" all day without even half-thinking about it...

"Oh god, it really does suck, doesn't it?" O'Malley watched as Sherman literally pitched his forehead onto the table, causing everyone's drinks to slosh. O'Malley grabbed up his drink in an attempt to save it. He caught Danny's eye over the top of the other young man's plaid head and mouthed the words: "Emo bitch." And Danny started laughing, which only caused the other man to lift his head and say, "Are you laughing at me?"

"Sherman, you worry way too much. Why do you do these showings if you can't stop all the hand-wringing?"

"I don't know. I just can't help it. I'm just not sure..."

"Nobody's ever 'sure,' so just get over it," said O'Malley stoically. He went back to staring at the stein-heads behind the bar.

O'Malley tuned out both Sherman and Danny as the two of them continued to natter on about Sherman's latest showing at the Symposium. Mostly the conversation consisted of Sherman being insecure about his work, with Danny reassuring him-over and over again-that everything was okay. After a while it got kind of...repetitious. Like a more irritating kind of leitmotif. Luckily, O'Malley had started drinking early, and was already three sheets to the wind before even hitting the gallery doors. Social lubricant for a socially distasteful situation. Could anyone really blame him for it though? How was he supposed to deal with such a whiny, high-maintenance artist/acquaintance otherwise? Was this how Ari felt when dealing with him? God help her, if she did...

"...O is _always_ sure," declared Sherman with just a tiny hint of green coloring his words. "Did you see that self-portrait of his in Photography Today magazine? Might as well have had the slogan 'Pimpin' Ain't Easy' blazed across the top of it."

"-I thought you didn't do self-portraits?" interrupted Danny, brows furrowing.

"It was Ari's fault. The whole issue was about the "Top Five Hottest Photographers Working Today." They wanted a self-portrait for each. And Ari had already made the commitment..."

"Yey, but they put_ his_ picture on the _cover_," said Sherman, this time with more than just a hint of green. O'Malley ignored the insinuating tone in Sherman's words. Getting the cover had been easy. Why? Because Juliet Anslow had the face of a horse. And Phaedon Miller looked like he should be hanging out under a bridge. And Kerry and Varner...well, both their works-and their faces-were both too bland to even be considered for the cover. Which only left Mr. Hot Irish Guy with the Clever Picture to take the honors.

In the end, it all boiled down to cold, hard aesthetics...

"Hey-what's with the map in the background anyway? That wasn't in the original version of "The Procuress?" said Sherman, rudely waving his empty glass at a passing waitress.

"What's a 'Procuress'?" asked Danny.

"It's a painting by Vermeer," explained Sherman. "O'Malley did his own version for the magazine. Mr. Smarty Pants. Changed the symbols around, though. Like I said, it might as well have had 'Pimpin' Ain't Easy' spelled out across it."

"Maybe the map stands for 'International' or 'Global Pimp'," offered Danny.

Even O'Malley laughed at that one.

"Hey, O'Malley-isn't that the guy who shot you down in the Symposium the other day?" O'Malley's head swerved to follow Danny's line of sight. Through the Pence's front picture window O'Malley caught sight of shoulder-length blond hair, the shade jacked up several watts by the unforgiving fluorescence of an overhanging street light. He watched as the figure headed straight for the Pence's front door, holding his breath as he waited for it to swing open...

_Damn, he was acting like a school kid with a crush..._

And O'Malley never acted that way.

"Somebody turned down O?" asked Sherman, with a little more excitement than O'Malley would have liked. "Who? Where? Oh, I gotta see this rare flower..."

"Just walked through the door," muttered Danny. All three men at the table watched surreptitiously as the leather-wearing blond walked by the front hostess's station and made a bee-line directly for the bar. The very crowded bar. The young man was forced to squeeze in between some jowly guy in a three piece suit and an overly tanned woman tricked out with too much gold jewelry. The drink order he yelled over at the bartender was lost in the din of clinking glasses and food orders and multiple, simultaneous conversations. O'Malley found himself staring again. The bar's lighting was doing wonders for the young man; his skin and hair practically glowed against the glossy backdrop of black leather. All the studs, buckles, and rivets on the motorcycle jacket he wore gave him a kind of hard edge-toughened up what could have easily been a too-feminine look. And the eye-liner-absent from before-was the crowning glory: the boy's pale eyes looked positively electric within the oval frames of those smudged, black borders.

O'Malley was up and out of his seat before he even knew it.

He was calculating, strategizing like a five star general as he made his way over to the bar. First, get rid of one of the nit-wits on either side of him. Second, find out what he was drinking and order another. Third, literally charm the pants off the blond. The execution of these three things wasn't beyond his skill set. Oh, no-far from it. On the attractiveness scale, O'Malley ranked himself a nine, maybe an eight on a bad day. Again, it all boiled down to cold, hard aesthetics. And aesthetic facts were incontrovertible. There was no way in the world he shouldn't be able to score here. The numbers were firmly set in his favor. And even if the boy was a ten, well...he could always count on his camera to act as the Great Equalizer. As it always had been.

If only he could find out why the kid was so opposed to being photographed...

O'Malley took a chance and tapped the overly tanned woman on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but someone ran into your car out in the parking lot."

The woman, obviously inebriated almost to the point of no return, muttered, "Shit." She then stubbed out her cigarette, grabbed her matching gold purse off the bar, and walked-albeit in a wobbly fashion-towards the front door.

Phase one completed.

O'Malley glanced down at the blond's drink as he squeezed in next to him. "Another chocolate martini over here, Wendy," called O'Malley, gesturing at the blond's near empty glass. O'Malley's eyes met the blond's in the long, hanging mirror against the back wall, over the ceramic heads of Shakespeare and Churchill and Elizabeth. The boy's expression was closed off, revealing nothing, but it was obvious that the boy recognized him, knew who he was. And on the bright side, he hadn't told him to go to hell yet, so O'Malley was hopeful.

"You didn't have to do that," the boy finally said, in a voice almost too low to hear. Again, O'Malley found himself liking the low, scratchy sound of it. Dark and flowing, like expensive Scotch-on-the-rocks.

O'Malley adored Scotch-on-the-rocks.

Phase two completed.

"Consider it a peace offering. I apparently pissed you off the other day with that photo offer."

O'Malley watched in the mirror as the blond smiled a small, yet secretive, smile. He was looking down at his drink. "You thought that I was pissed off? That was definitely not me being pissed off. You would have known if I was _really _pissed off." The blond lifted his eyes to the mirror again. There was the hint of a threat there.

O'Malley ignored it.

"I'm not going to pose for you," said the boy, effectively cutting off O'Malley's words before he could even form them.

"Why not?"

Silence.

Then: "What's your name?"

More silence.

"Is it because you think...my work's probably not good?" probed O'Malley. He tried to come up with a logical, rational explanation for the boy's reticence. No, it couldn't be insecurity. Not from this one. There wasn't a single insecure thing about him. So maybe, he thought he was some sort of hack, an amateur. Or...

"You think this is my version of 'wanna come up and see my etchings'?" asked O'Malley. He was rewarded with the bright sound of laughter from the blond. O'Malley watched the young man's expression change in the mirror.

"Might have crossed my mind," the blond admitted, smiling again. O'Malley smiled back as their eyes caught and held in the reflection.

"I really do take pictures, you know. And I really, honestly want to take yours," and, as O'Malley pronounced the words, he realized that this was true. He really, _really_ wanted to take this boy's picture...

The boy's mouth closed into a tight line, and he merely shook his head. He dropped his gaze to the bar's surface as a second chocolate martini was placed in front of him. O'Malley felt the moment beginning to slip...

_Damn, he really was going to have to work for it._

Only now, O'Malley was confused as to exactly what 'it' was...

Was it a roll in the hay? Or was it a photograph? Which was more important? Or more intriguing?

_Whichever was the hardest to obtain..._

The blond glanced down at his watch and promptly said, "I gotta run." O'Malley watched as he picked up the glass in front of him and downed it all in one go. Then O'Malley said: "Where are you going?"

"Work thing," replied the blond abstractly.

What the hell-it was ten o'clock on a Friday night? So O'Malley asked: "Oh? What kind of work?"

"Mergers and acquisitions," replied the boy, in what was obviously a bullshit answer. So: no name, and no job. O'Malley had absolutely nothing on the kid.

As the boy turned to go, O'Malley, in a random act of desperation, said: "Do you want to go to a ball tomorrow night?"

The boy froze, and turning to face O'Malley, said, "A _what_?"

"A ball. Well, actually it's a _vampire_ ball. A freak fest. Kind of stupid really. It's being held at a place called Club Ten downtown. I'm supposed to be there for my job," O'Malley's tone suggested that he would rather be anywhere but there. "My agent signs me up for these things..." he simply allowed the words to trail off.

"Hmmm...maybe," said the boy with a shrug. Then he promptly turned and stalked out the pub's front door. O'Malley watched his ass as he went, vaguely mesmerized.

Well...it wasn't a 'no.'

And maybe now O'Malley had something to look forward to tomorrow night...

End Chapter 2.


	4. Chapter 3: Session

_In which absolutely nothing of consequence happens...(no, seriously)._

Chapter 3: Session

White profile against a black backdrop, white pearls against a black dress. The woman's few visible features were striking against the all-encompassing, velvety blackness: white face, white hands, white pearls...and nothing else. The rest was simple blackness. The woman's skin glowed with a Pre-Raphaelite paleness amidst a dark vortex, making her look like a ghost, a white specter emerging from some great, black beyond. The pearls, threaded loosely through her long white fingers and left to dangle in a noose-like loop almost to the floor, led the eye from hands to face. _Yes! _The image was a more than competent reproduction of Eugene Richee's 1928 photo; the stark light-and-dark contrast suited O'Malley's style and he felt comfortable reproducing the well-known image. Besides, it was better than his model's suggested alternative...

"I still say we shoulda done Michelle Pfeiffer on a piano," complained the woman-whose intrusive voice spoiled the illusion and made it obvious to the whole world that she was, in fact, not a woman at all. Her voice held the gruff tone of a man's, twangy and more than a bit abrasive. She broke her pose to glare at O'Malley from across the way.

"No more pianos. And no red sequined dresses."

The woman continued to glare.

"No, Tallulah. Why can't you just trust me on this?"

"'Cause I look like dog-shit in profile, O'Malley." The woman stood defiantly, hands on hips and chin raised.

A loud snicker came from across the way.

"What are you laughing at over there, Sherman?" asked the woman in the pearls. The top of the artist's plaid golfing cap was just visible over the back of the couch. "Don't you have some phallic-y looking building to go paint or something?"

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" said a voice from the couch.

"It means you spend way too much time hanging off of O'Mammy's apron strings-why don't you get a clue or two?" said Tallulah, jabbing an immaculately manicured finger in the couch's direction.

Sherman's horrified face appeared over the back of the couch. "Ouch! What the hell, Lu?" He glared across the loft to the makeshift space where Tallulah and O'Malley were currently shooting.

"I hate both of you," declared O'Malley, rubbing his scalp in annoyance. It was two in the afternoon, but he still felt wrecked from all the drinks he'd had at the Pence last night. Definitely not enough recovery time. And he still had the stupid ball to shoot that night. God-why the hell did he have to work so much? And on a Saturday? Other people didn't have to work on Saturday...

"Oh, I think you know _exactly_ what I mean, Sherman."

"You are such a bitch, Lu."

O'Malley unscrewed a bottle of Bushmill's and poured it into his coffee mug, ignoring the conversation taking place around him. It had occurred to him to just skip out on the stupid party with the stupid theme that was being thrown by some stupid magazine editor, but then Ari had called him that morning-at the ungodly hour of ten-to say that she would be coming around at eight to give him his press pass for the event. He knew that her real intent was to make sure that he showed up on time like he was supposed to. The woman was like some combination talent agent/Gestapo. It was truly amazing how little O'Malley actually participated in his own professional life. It wasn't necessary, not with someone like Ari around. She booked his shootings and then shuttled him to and fro from one place to another like some overly-watchful nanny. All O'Malley had to do was take the pictures.

And sometimes even that could be an obnoxious pain. Like with Lu, for instance.

"This bitch is just trying to open your eyes to the truth, Shermie-boy."

"I don't need your stupid advice, Ta-llu-lah," answered Sherman petulantly. He slid back down on the couch and grabbed up one of O'Malley's cameras from the table in front of him.

That got O'Malley's attention. "Lay off the camera, Sherman. It's older than you and cost more than five months rent."

"Geez," said Sherman, who promptly set the camera-a 1975 Canon F-1-back down. He then picked up what looked to be a greeting card, one that had been left lying casually between the camera and a conspicuously empty bottle of Jack. "Hey, is this a birthday card or something? I didn't know it was your birthday, O..." Sherman's eyes grew wide as he read what was actually written in the card. "Holy shit, O. Is this really from your old man?" Sheman held up the card questioningly.

"Yes," O'Malley responded icily. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd stop going through my things." From over O'Malley's shoulder, Tallulah mouthed the word, "Stalker," and Sherman gave her the finger.

Sherman put the card down and looked uncomfortably at the floor. "Does he always tell you to repent and to get down on your knees and beg God for the forgiveness of your sins?"

"Every Christmas and every birthday," said O'Malley flatly. Then: "He's not a fan of my work."

Silence filled the room.

"That's cold, coming from your dad," said Tallulah finally. Then, to take everyone's mind off what was written in the card, Tallulah said: "What's with the bed post in the corner, sugar? Have a little too much fun or something?"

O'Malley had forgotten about the wooden post that was propped against the wall. A little memento from the previous weekend. Last Saturday he had woken up in the middle of an overly bright afternoon, his body hurting in places he didn't even think were possible. And there had been nothing but a big black hole in the place where the previous night's memory should have been (a disconcerting-but not uncommon-side effect from all the drinking he'd been doing). Bleary-eyed, he'd gotten out of his bed and had promptly tripped head-first over the bed post, which was detached and laying like a waiting trip-wire on the floor. A suspicion began to form in his mind then, one which was egged on by his various aches and pains, that there may have been some sort of air-borne shenanigans at play. Well, there had been only one sure-fire way to find out what really had happened...

He developed the film from his camera.

It surprised him, sometimes, what mysteries lay within those tiny little cells. Especially when you were a black-out prone drunk. And on that weekend, the Souljacker concert had been apparently too much fun for him. Or rather, there had been _way_ too much vodka and tequila, and maybe a joint or two, with a little cocaine icing thrown in to sweeten the whole thing up. And then there had been not one-but _two_-guys in skinny black band T-shirts, both sporting tongue piercings and smudged eye-liner. And the end result: _shenanigans_. O'Malley had been vaguely horrified, but unsurprised, to discover-within the consoling sanctuary of his darkroom-just _exactly_ how he had spent his weekend. Which was to say, he had treated his body like an open amusement park, and his head-as well as his furniture-had ended up paying the ensuing price for it. Just thinking about it now set his temples to throbbing...

O'Malley muttered the phrases "air-borne shenanigans" and "narcotics-induced," which was enough to send Tallulah into a rather horsey sounding laughing fit. "O'Malady, baby! You need to take it down a notch. You are cute, for sure, but you are _no_ spring chicken-"

"-so my aching back tells me. You can stop with all the advice, Lu."

"-a nasty, drunken, pervy photo-taking, clap-ridden Irishman like yourself-"

"You forgot 'cradle-robbing,'" interrupted Sherman.

"Yes-thank you, Sherman! A nasty, drunken, pervy photo-taking, clap-ridden, cradle robbing Irishman like you needs some advice. Does nobody ever tell you the truth about yourself?"

"Fuck off, Lu."

"See, I thought not-"

"-and I take exception to the term 'clap-ridden.'"

"Then I retract it."

"Thank you." O'Malley paused and took a big gulp from his whisky-laced coffee mug. He made a face as he realized the coffee-to-whisky ratio was tilted _way_ too far in whisky's favor.

"You gonna share that bottle, sugar, or you gonna horde it?" asked Tallulah.

"Didn't you just give me some sort of drinking lecture?"

"Shit, man! My advice is strictly of the 'do as I say, not as I do' variety. And I could use a cigarette, too."

Tallulah stepped away from the black backdrop to dig through a beaded purse for a pack of cigarettes. She slid one out, stuck it between her scarlet-painted lips, lit it, and grabbed up the bottle of Bushmill's. It gave O'Malley an idea.

"Hey, Tallulah, can you get back in that pose, but keep the cig and the whisky bottle?"

Sherman was watching over the back of the couch. "That's gonna look funny."

"So let's be funny," said O'Malley, who was suddenly liking the idea of changing the image from its former pearl-graced elegance to something more 'elegantly trashy.' And the image suited Tallulah's personality better. But he didn't, of course, say this out loud.

Tallulah resumed her position in front of the black backdrop. O'Malley took up his other camera, a 1976 Canon AE-1, and went to work. "Let's make like it's Christmas and wrap this shit up," muttered O'Malley. "I want to sleep before tonight's gig." The retro-sounding click of the shutter filled the room.

"Are you _really_ going to Vic's party tonight?" asked Sherman from the couch.

"I'm going to be _working _at Vic's party," answered O'Malley, whose face was currently glued to his camera back.

"Danny's band's gonna be playing."

"I know," said O'Malley. And if he did enough good pictures for them, then maybe Danny would finally forgive him for skipping out on Jaded Sadie's show last weekend.

The _bad _weekend...

And maybe-_maybe_-if O'Malley was extra lucky, then that hot little blond from the Pence would actually show up. O'Malley had been thinking about the boy way too much, and he was more than aware of the fact that he was becoming just a wee-bit obsessed with him: a kind of heady, anticipatory feeling he hadn't experienced in a long, long time. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe he really had gotten too jaded, a state fueled by having too many things-and people-just fall freely into his lap. Maybe he needed the challenge. And this kid was definitely proving to be a challenge. Twice now, he'd been shot down. Most guys would have just given up and walked away, but O'Malley's own stubborn nature just urged him on. He wanted-_needed_-to change the boy's mind about being photographed. There had been a moment in the bar-the moment where the boy had dropped his eyes and shook his head at his offer-where O'Malley had almost gotten a sense of...what? Regret? Hesitation? Denial? No, there had definitely been something there. _Something_. And it was this 'something' that made O'Malley think that maybe-just maybe-he could change the boy's mind. That he could overcome whatever it was that was holding him back. That the obstacles weren't completely insurmountable.

And hopefully, if the boy showed up to the party tonight, then O'Malley could give it another try...

End Chapter 3.


	5. Chapter 4: Party I

_I promise that we'll get to M's POV soon (fear not folks)._

Chapter 4: Party I

The design elements were all out of whack.

It was supposed to be a 'theme' party, but there were so many conflicting themes at play that it all just came off as...bizarre. The decor looked as if it had been done by an Asian schizophrenic with Gothic tendencies, and maybe a serial killer fetish. O'Malley stood for several minutes by the front bar, which was hung with blood bags, some of which were attached to old-fashioned silver IV poles. He prodded one of the bags with a finger, wondering what the red stuff inside it actually was. Syrup? Booze? Real blood? With Vic, it was hard to say for certain. The man was a known control freak with a pain killer addiction (you could just look into his eyes and _tell_), and maybe-if you were hopped up on enough liquor and lortabs-then blood bags and Asian paper lanterns together would seem like an absolutely fantastic idea.

Well, O'Malley was stone cold sober, and it was positively _not _a good idea.

O'Malley shook his head and turned away. He pushed his way through a labyrinth of glass doors, with the intention of finding the main stage area. The party hadn't officially started yet, and there was still time before the club was opened for business. Party staff in various outfits-undead nurses, vampire hunters wearing gauntlets with wooden stakes strapped to their backs, waiters in tuxes and fangs-rushed back and forth around him, ignoring him as they went about their last-minute duties. O'Malley opened the door to the main floor, and standing in the middle of it was a short man wearing a loud purple button down shirt and lavender silk tie who was screaming orders at various staff members who were jumping at his words like dogs in a training session: _sit! stay! roll over!_ The purple shirt had to be the club owner or the promoter or whoever was currently in charge of this ungodly mess, and he came across as sweaty, tense, and uber-stressed. His voice was uncomfortably shriek-y as he grabbed a passing waiter by the elbow and launched into a laundry list of garbled orders. The man promptly released him and the waiter simply spun away with a dazed expression on his face. The stressed purple shirt then locked eyes with O'Malley and he shrieked, "Hey-you there!"

O'Malley froze.

The little man came shimmying up to O'Malley, his actions and demeanor strongly resembling those of an overly-excited chihauhua. "What are you doing?" demanded the little man, who paused to glance down at the square plastic tag that was hanging around his neck. That, combined with the clear expression of "fuck off" that O'Malley was wearing, was enough to make the man squeak, "Never mind," and send him reeling off into another direction. O'Malley just smirked. So his reputation preceded him, eh? Excellent-because frankly he didn't need the additional annoyance of prissy promoters trying tell him what to do. That was a standard inclusion in of all of his contracts: he had to be left absolutely alone to do his 'thing' with no outside interference. And if someone wanted to try and interfere-well, it was at great personal risk of bodily injury to whomever it was doing the interfering. And while that last part was definitely _not_ included in any contract, it was altogether implied.

"Hey, O'Malley!"

O'Malley spotted Danny's red beanie cap and blue-framed glasses-the colors standing out like crayons in a Crayola box-beneath the garish lighting of the main stage. He was sitting with his legs dangling over the edge with a Gibson Les Paul guitar on one side and a silver thermos on the other. O'Malley immediately homed in on the thermos.

"Whatcha got in there, Dan?" asked O'Malley as he approached.

"Vodka and OJ..."

"Give it."

Wordlessly, Danny handed over the thermos. O'Malley sat down next to him, and took a big swig from the container. Thermos cooties didn't even rank his concern.

"Don't drink the whole thing, " said Danny finally.

O'Malley plunked the thermos back down. He looked up at the giant round paper lanterns that were hanging from the ceiling. "It's a bit of a mess, isn't it?"

"I don't know," shrugged Danny. "I kinda like it. It's like being inside a hallucination. You know, without the drugs."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it." O'Malley hesitated only a moment before picking up the thermos again and upending it. Danny watched disapprovingly, then said:

"We're set to go on first, then Angels of Anarchy will follow us as the main act-"

O'Malley literally spewed out his drink.

"What the _fuck_, man?" asked Danny, pulling in his precious red sneakers.

"Nobody said anything about them playing!" said O'Malley, obviously pissed.

"So what?"

"So _what_? Their fucking lead singer almost wrapped me around a tree with his car once. Goddam smack addict..."

There was quite a bit more to the story than that, but O'Malley didn't feel like going into it. And Danny was smart enough to not ask him about it. So the guitarist merely said, "So you don't like him then?" and left it at that.

"You're damn right, I don't like him," muttered O'Malley under his breath, his eyes narrowed gloomily at the floor. It seemed that this evening was pretty much set to go to hell in a hand basket. Oh, yey-he could just fucking_ feel _it...

And it was during this moment that the stressed purple shirt started clapping his hands together in the middle of the floor and screamed: "Alright, people! Show time! Everybody in their places! We're opening the front doors NOW!"

"Well, that's that," said Danny, rising up from his spot. O'Malley stood up with him, reaching for his camera bag.

It was time for the party to officially begin...

* * *

It was like an audio-visual assault to the senses. Jaded Sadie's amps had the whole main floor literally vibrating with sound, the pounding heartbeat of the bass guitar causing tables, chairs, and all other pieces of furniture in the immediate area to shudder and lurch like there was an ongoing earthquake. Red and white strobe lights rotated and flashed on the dance floor overhead, dousing everyone in bleach one minute, blood the next. There were middle-aged women in too-short dresses, plus sized drag queens, and what looked like escapees from the Renaissance fair all swaying to the overly-loud beat. It was insane. It was a nightmare. It was the perfect excuse for O'Malley to get shit-faced. Even though, of course, after last weekend's fiasco he had mentally promised himself that he would behave for this.

Well, good behavior had never been his strong suit...

He made a direct bee-line for one of the many blood-bag bars. It wasn't even necessary for him to order. Before he'd even opened his mouth, one of the bartenders (dressed in bloodied scrubs) had shoved a drink his way, a finger wave indicating some other customer across the way. O'Malley turned to stare across the bar to the boy? girl? thing? that had bought him his drink. He then turned away, grabbed up the glass, and rudely stalked off. Behind him, he heard some woman laugh and say, "Hey, I didn't know vampires drank white Russians." What the fuck? Was she seriously talking about him? He took a swig of his drink. It _was _a goddam white Russian. O'Malley hated white Russians. That didn't stop him from draining the whole thing, though.

"You might want to lose the popped collar if you want them to stop saying that."

O'Malley whirled around at that comment-sloshing his drink across the floor in the process-only to find himself standing face to face with Valentin Ceras, the lead singer from the band Angels of Anarchy. Tall, anemically pale, with a head full of glossy black hair, and basically fuck-all gorgeous. O'Malley couldn't stop himself from staring. Then he remembered that Valentin was an egotistical, out-of-control smack addict who had almost gotten him killed and he promptly snapped himself out of it. "Get lost," he said, before turning and heading for the outside patio.

"As drunk and as rude as ever," called Valentin from behind him, a bitter note coloring his voice. "Go to hell," O'Malley mumbled under his breath as he hit the glass doors leading out to the deck.

The blast of icy air was a welcome sensation on his skin as he breathed in the coolness of the lantern-lit night. What was not so welcome was the slurred voice of Vic Madigan, magazine editor and pain killer addict, as he grabbed O'Malley's passing arm, and said, in a too-loud voice, "Hey! O'Grady! It's you! Why don't you come over here and say hello to my assistant editor and head writer?" O'Malley turned to find Vic's eyes glittering with an unnatural lortab-and-liquor induced sheen.

O'Malley restrained himself as he allowed Vic to pull him over to a pair of his mousy co-workers, both of which had '_please help me_' expressions on their faces. O'Malley smiled a fake smile and pointed to his press badge. The two co-workers looked at it and he watched as the realization of who he actually was dawned on their faces. That still didn't stop Vic from going on with "O'Grady this" and "O'Grady that." And not once did O'Malley bother to correct him. He simply allowed Vic to go on for a little bit, before he finally got fed up and said, "Hold this for me, will you, Vic?" and then he placed his empty liquor glass in the editor's hand and just sauntered off.

O'Malley clattered down some stairs to the deck's lower level. Off to the side, near a giant ice sculpture of a wolf baying at a full moon (?), was a man breathing fire while simultaneously walking on stilts. Next to him was another man, who was apparently walking across hot coals or glass or something else equally painful and uninviting. O'Malley didn't know how any of this was supposed to fit in with the 'vampire' theme and he frankly didn't care. He just wanted to get as far away from the noise and the lights and the crowds as humanly possible. Sartre had it right: Hell really _was _other people.

"Hey, O'Malley!"

O'Malley tensed as someone else called his name. _Fuckofffuckofffuckofffuckoff, _he thought to himself as another unknown and unwelcome figure came bounding across the bricks in his direction. No-not unknown. Just Sherman. Sans hat, which was why O'Malley hadn't immediately recognized him.

Well, he didn't want to talk to him, either.

Sherman came to a bouncy halt next to O'Malley, the spring in his step altogether too springy for O'Malley's current taste. "Watcha doin' way out here, O? I thought you'd be in there photographing. You know, out there on the floor where the chick's beating the guy with a bullwhip..."

"I saw that earlier," replied O'Malley in a bored tone, as if a guy being beaten with a bullwhip in public was a daily occurrence within his life. He suddenly didn't feel like talking to anyone in a way that constituted normal, friendly human interaction. So in order to get rid of Sherman, O'Malley pulled some bills out of his peacoat and said, "Hey...go to the bar and get me a rum and coke, will you?"

Sherman just beamed as if O'Malley had asked him to dance-an observation that was completely lost on O'Malley. "Sure thing, O," and Sherman took the wad of bills and headed off up the steps. O'Malley sighed in relief. _Alone at last._ He sat down on the edge of a concrete barrier that was flanked by rows of neatly-clipped hedges. And remembering Valentin's comment about popped collars, he shrugged his way out of his peacoat, revealing a distressed Led Zeppelin tee depicting the Hindenburg going down in flames. He shivered a bit at the slight bite of cold that nipped at his skin, and he suddenly wished that he had Danny's thermos. There was nothing like a little bit of vodka to warm the soul.

"Hey there."

O'Malley tensed at the greeting, his bodily need for solitude making itself known. Then he relaxed as he recognized that voice. Scotch-on-the-rocks. O'Malley turned to find a shiny, leather clad angel walking towards him, balancing along the narrow concrete barrier.

The boy jumped down from the low wall, landing beside O'Malley with a youthful, graceful ease, and O'Malley suddenly thought about what Tallulah had said about 'cradle-robbing.' The remembered comment made him feel catastrophically old.

"You made it," observed O'Malley.

"I did."

"Not working at ten o'clock at night this time?"

"No, not this time."

"So-you have a name you wanna give me yet?"

"Maybe. You...you seem to have lost your first name somewhere."

"Yey. I don't need it. Besides, they're a burden don't you think-names?"

The boy looked up at him sharply. There was an...odd expression in his pale eyes. "Yes. Most definitely," agreed the boy. Then he said, looking down at the ground: "I didn't know you were a real photographer."

"If you mean 'real' as in 'tangible,' then yes, I suppose I am-"

"No, not tangible. _Famous_. Which is why you get away with just using the one name."

"What can I say? I'm in the one-name diva club, right up there with Cher and Madonna."

"That's a _really_ lame joke."

"Oh, just wait 'til I've had a few more drinks. They get a lot worse."

"You're extremely self-deprecating."

"Is that so? Most would say I'm a self-absorbed ego-maniac."

"Then they didn't look at your picture. I did. The symbolism was very self-deprecating."

O'Malley raised an eyebrow at this. "Oh, really?"

"Really. You basically stated to the world that you're a drunken whore."

O'Malley laughed uproariously at this. After a few moments-when he had managed to calm himself down again-he said, "I'm...sort of shocked that you got that." He was now looking at the blond with a whole new level of appreciation.

The boy seemed vaguely defensive. "Are you kidding? You practically bash the viewer over the head with Vermeer's symbolism."

O'Malley just stared. Then: "Where the _fuck _did you go to school?"

"Oh, I had a very...special education growing up. We studied_ everything_." Then, as if to turn the subject away from himself, he said, "Are you always so truthful in your photographs?"

O'Malley looked somewhat thoughtful. "It's...well...it's probably the only time I _do_ tell the truth." And then: "I like being able to tell an entire story with a single image. I find it challenging-"

"-what story would you tell about me?" the boy said, interrupting.

O'Malley smiled a slight, leisurely smile, his eyes sweeping over the blond in slow, sensual appraisal. "I haven't quite worked that out yet..." he said in a low, hoarse voice, allowing the words to trail off. And the two of them just sat there, side by side, as a kind of tense, electrified silence took over. A silence that grew, became more protracted: it threatened to snap in two, like the taut, strained ends of a rubberband. O'Malley could _feel_ something happening. There was some sort of weird, messed up chemistry-or perhaps understanding-churning in the air between them. He felt it, and a million thoughts began rushing through his head all at once: _What did he look like naked? What does his face look like during orgasm? Was he a screamer? Did the carpet match the drapes? What does he taste like? Does he like it rough? _And so on and so forth. A million and one thoughts, a million and one intimate questions, all accompanied by a rapid-fire succession of vivid, pornographic images. Well, screw this party. O'Malley knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to ask the blond to leave this place with him right _now_. He wanted to get the hell out of here. He wanted to-

-and what O'Malley wanted quickly became forgotten as he heard his name yelled at him from two opposite directions...

End Chapter 4.

_No update next week, as yours truly will be on vacation (what? again?). Yes, again. Catch me in the bar-or the cemetery-folks..._


	6. Chapter 5: Party II

Chapter 5: Party II

"Oh, for fuck's sake..." O'Malley muttered, rolling his eyes toward heaven as if to accuse God himself of devising the current ridiculous sequence of events just to torment him.

Valentin was currently marching toward him from the left, like some ghost of photographs past, while Sherman came trotting in-two glasses of liquor in hand-from the right. Both stopped short when they saw that O'Malley wasn't quite alone. And both wore weirdly matching, comically pissed off expressions. The two men started speaking together at once:

"You didn't have to storm off like some rude jackass!"

"Hey, O, can we go somewhere and talk?"

"Listen, you! I was talking first!"

"No you weren't. And who the hell are you?"

"Who the hell are _you_?"

O'Malley turned his face into the blond boy's shoulder and uttered miserably, "Someone please get these 'ho's off of me..." The boy laughed musically at the whispered comment, his face reflecting wry amusement at the situation. The sound drew sharp looks from the other two men. And once again, they both started speaking at the same time:

"So who's this? The current flavor of the week?"

"Why don't you take off, dude. You are obviously not wanted here."

"I'm not wanted here? Ha! I've got news for you pal: he's never gonna bang your fat ass. _Never._ I don't care how many glasses of booze you pour into him-"

"-_what the fuck?"_

"You heard me, dude. Shove off."

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck _you_!"

O'Malley raised his hand. "Don't I get a say in who I'm fucking?"

"_SHUT UP!"_

O'Malley dropped his hand. The nameless blond boy remained silent-his beautiful, angular face staring up at him with an expression which bordered on pity. O'Malley found himself staring back. And, as he gazed into those pale, azure eyes, he found himself forgetting all about Valentin and Sherman and everyone else who seemed-by some bizarre manifestation of bad magnetism-to want a piece of him that evening. No, the moment wasn't completely lost yet. Just somewhat derailed. And maybe-just maybe-he could get it back. That is, if he could get rid of his impromptu fan club...

"Fuck this. I'm leaving," said Sherman finally, with more than just a little bit of hurt coloring his words. He then set the two glasses down on the concrete barrier and turned and stormed off.

"And well you should," called Valentin snidely. O'Malley watched the rocker as he turned and scooped up one of the glasses, downing its contents all in a single go. He then turned to stare directly at O'Malley, and the photographer could see the hazy film of booze-and god only knew what else-clouding the other man's vision. Valentin was well and truly fucked up.

"You could have called, you know. Said _something_." Valentin's tone was weirdly imploring.

O'Malley rasped out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter. "Are you fucking kidding me? We are _not _having this conversation six months after the fact."

"Yes, we are!"

"No, we're not."

"You passive-aggressive, alcoholic _asshole_! I can't believe I'm even talking to you right now-"

"-just why _are_ you talking to me?"

"Because..." Valentin sputtered helplessly. He then glared at the blond, and said through gritted teeth, "Can you tell your cock du jour to take a hike for a moment?"

"No, I can't. And he's not my 'cock du jour,' as you so eloquently put it."

"Maybe he isn't..." proclaimed Valentin darkly, "...yet." He then leaned in toward the blond boy, and said, in a confidential tone of voice, "You should stay away from him. He's a complete alcoholic and an asshole and a user-"

"I'll take that into due consideration," said the boy in a faux serious tone, leaning away from the other man.

"That's enough, Val," interrupted O'Malley, and he grabbed the second drink from the wall before Valentin could snatch it. "Don't you have a set to get ready for?"

"I'm fine," insisted Valentin. And then-as if to prove the exact opposite-he lurched against O'Malley and said, in a drunken slur, "Meet me afterwards?"

O'Malley watched the blond boy roll his eyes over the top of Valentin's head; the rocker was currently shamelessly drooling all over his Led Zeppelin T-shirt. O'Malley gently pushed the other off of him and said, "I don't think so."

Valentin's expression immediately turned dark. "Why not? And don't say that it wasn't any good-the two of us." Then: "I still like you."

"You don't even fucking know me," spat O'Malley, his temper suddenly rising.

"But I know what you_ like_."

"You don't know _shit_."

"You don't care then? That I still want you?"

"But you don't want_ me_," said O'Malley, and he could feel some sort of speech coming on, the words unstoppable, like verbal diarrhea. He found himself saying things-_true_ things, _honest _things-he didn't mean to say: "You liked the version you saw of yourself through my eyes, that's all. All wonderful and perfect and ideal and completely, totally unreal. It was never about _me_. Hell, I don't even figure into this equation, not really. It's all about you, you, you. Or do you not realize that? I might be an alcoholic bastard, but at least I'm self aware enough to know that I was never the true object of your desire. It was all about self love. I just allowed myself to play your mirror for a bit, that's all. It's all I _ever _fucking do."

Valentin blinked stupidly, obviously trying to absorb the words. "I don't get what you're saying."

O'Malley shook his head regretfully and said, "No. And I don't expect you to." Then: "Go away, Val."

Valentin took two unsteady steps backward. "Fine, I'm going. I don't need this psychological mumbo-jumbo of yours anyway. Why should I?" His eyes then flicked to the boy beside him. "I hope you two are very happy together, considering all the bullshit that comes out of his mouth." He then turned and staggered awkwardly away.

O'Malley and the blond stood together in a heavy, almost impenetrable silence. A hard wind whipped around them, rattling the string of hanging lanterns on the lower deck, splashing the courtyard in a black and gold shadow-play. O'Malley shivered, and he grabbed up his peacoat and tugged it back on, the movements jerky, almost angry. After a while he said:

"I'm sorry about that."

"No, I'm sorry."

O'Malley looked at the boy sharply. "Why are you sorry? I'm the one-"

"-that speech you just made was really...well, _sad_."

O'Malley felt his face begin to turn red. Actual red. And that never happened. His thoughts were sloshing, clashing together like sheets of rain in a violent squall. His interior monologue was a veritable maelstrom of self immolation: _Why did I say that shit? I am such a fucking idiot. Someone should really sew my mouth shut. He's never going to want to leave with me after that bullshit display. I came off like a drunken groupie. Hell, I _am_ a drunken groupie. I need to stop fucking stupid guys in bands. Yey, I say that now, but wait until next week. I have the willpower of a smack addict on a bender. Hell, If I had stayed with Valentin, I would probably _be_ a smack addict on a bender. That man makes my addictions look like candy. I can't believe all the shit that has happened this evening. God obviously hates me-_

"Hello? Anyone at home in there?" the blond was suddenly waving a leather-gloved hand in front of his face.

O'Malley snapped out of his internal diatribe. "I'm sorry...I was completely off in space." He looked down, and remembering the glass of rum and coke that he still held in his hand, he lifted it up to his lips and took a long, hard swig.

"So that was the singer from Angels of Anarchy?" the boy asked him in a flat, emotionless tone.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"He was...it was..." and here the boy hesitated, "Well...it was a beautiful album cover you did for him. 'Orpheus Descending' wasn't it?"

"Yep. The same name as the Tennessee Williams play."

"Tell me, was the lyre on his back inked on?"

O'Malley smiled a somewhat bitter smile at that question, as he remembered the actual execution of the photo. "No. I drew it on myself." Then: "Keats had it all wrong, you know. Beauty isn't truth and truth isn't beauty. Sometimes truth is a _fucking ugly_ _bitch_."

The boy said nothing to that, and O'Malley upended his drink. The pleasant buzz he'd had going before was completely gone, obliterated by the stress of far too many unwanted interruptions, too many unwanted interactions. He needed more booze to get it back. And then the boy said:

"That friend of yours has a serious crush on you, you know."

"What? You mean Sherman? No way."

"Yes, way. He was giving me the glaring look of doom that night you were chatting me up at the bar."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Funny. He always said he was straight."

"I'd say he was about as straight as one of those twisty straws."

O'Malley merely shrugged at this newly acquired information. Well, he wasn't going to be the one to lead Sherman out of the closet and into the light. Uh-uh, not him. He was obviously not the man for such grand revelations of self-realization, if tonight was anything to go by. Drunken parties and existential truths obviously did not mix. And then another thought suddenly struck him, and he said:

"Wait-you looked at my album cover?"

O'Malley watched as the blond actually dropped his eyes in a demure, secretive smile-a strange contrast against all the hardware and leather. "At the risk of sounding like some kind of stalker, I must admit that I've looked at quite a bit of your work here lately."

O'Malley felt his heart begin to boom rapidly in his chest. If he hadn't known better, he would have said he was standing back in front of Jaded Sadie's amps.

"And?"

"And I liked it. A lot. You speak through visual symbols, like a puzzle, and I found it...challenging to decipher what it was you were actually trying to say."

"Well, maybe you're reading too much into them-"

"-No, I don't think so. You're smart and you hide a lot of stuff right out in the open. It's all right there for people to see if they are bright enough to look. It's like communicating in a secret language. And it's-well, I think I would need a few drinks myself, in order for me to say anything more..."

Now it was O'Malley's turn to drop his eyes to the ground. For the second time that night, he felt himself go red. Deep red. He had never before had such a gorgeous creature speak to him this way about his own work. In a way that really mattered. It all seemed unreal. And now he was unsure as to which one of them was doing the actual wooing here...

"You're being too kind," O'Malley said at last.

"Oh, I'm not usually kind," the boy responded cryptically. "My life, as of late, hasn't afforded me the opportunity to be empathetic or kind or amiable or any of that stuff. And sometimes it gets rather...tiring."

"What's tiring?"

"Being made of stone. _All the time_."

O'Malley just looked at the boy then. Really looked. And what he saw there, in the tight, weary slump of the boy's shoulders, in the far-off, desolate stare of his eyes, was an individual who was straining under the weight of some heavy, unnamed burden. O'Malley's eyes then dropped lower, to the flashing light of the silver cross he wore around his neck, and he found himself remembering-

-_it was dark, and raining. And a rosary was lying, twisted and broken, in pieces on the ground. Red beads were scattered everywhere. Red, like the drops of blood that were also on the ground. Everywhere, all around-_

"O'Malley!"

Jarred out of the memory, O'Malley turned at the sound of his name being called for the umpteenth time that evening. He could see Danny, along with Jaded Sadie's lead singer, Mutters-his actual name was Jack or Josh or Joe, but O'Malley could never remember which, so he arbitrarily assigned him the name 'Mutters,' which was what he did off stage-heading towards him from the upper patio deck. O'Malley swore under his breath. He then turned to the boy and said:

"Hey-you wanna get out of here?"

End Chapter 5.

_Note: I just decided on a whim to skip town again next week (during the days I was, er, going to write the next chapter-in I which will switch POVs) so no update for me. So to the 7 of you who are reading this, I apologize. But, there is more than one form of escapism, after all..._


	7. Chapter 6: Alive

_Mello's POV_

Chapter 6: Alive

"So-you wanna get out of here?"

"Why? You had enough of this already?" asked Mello, staring at the other's profile.

"I've had enough of this to last several years. In fact, I think if I _don't_ get out of here, my head's going to explode."

"_O'Malley!"_

"Jesus," the photographer swore under his breath. And, without waiting for a response, or any actual sign of assent, he grabbed Mello by the arm and all but yanked him through the hedges.

Mello merely smiled at O'Malley's sudden desperate need to escape. It was kind of funny really. And he had had far worse things happen to him on a Saturday night than some hot guy dragging him off into the bushes...

"I thought that guy in the red hat was your friend?" said Mello as they fought their way through the shrubbery.

"He is. In fact, Danny is the nicest person I know."

"Uh...then why are you running away from him?"

"Because he _is _the nicest person I know. And sometimes really nice people get on my fucking nerves."

Mello snorted at this. Not that he had any use for 'nice' people himself. He himself was far from nice. In fact, he was pretty sure that if O'Malley knew just how far from 'nice' he actually was, he might reconsider his options...

...or maybe not.

The two of them emerged in the back of a deserted parking lot. Suddenly O'Malley stopped and whirled on him. Mello halted, waiting expectantly.

"So. Uhm. Yey...I don't actually have a car."

"At all?"

"At all."

"Lose it somewhere?"

"If you're implying that I DUI'd my way out of my vehicle, the answer is 'no.' I was living in London up until last year and I just never had a need for one."

"Hey, I never said anything about a DUI."

"You were thinking it, though," said O'Malley, smiling wryly. "And God knows you would have enough evidence to support that little hypothesis."

"So what do you_ do_?"

"My agent drives me around. For actual jobs. Otherwise, I just walk. That pub you saw me in last night? It's less than four blocks from where I live. Which is a good thing. And also a bad thing."

"So this is really for the good of humanity...you not having a car."

"Like I could give a rat's ass about the good of humanity," O'Malley pronounced darkly.

"An excellent philosophy," enthused Mello. Then: "C'mon, I have a bike." With that, he turned and stalked off across the parking lot.

He heard clopping footsteps behind him and smiled. No need to check and see if the photographer was following. He knew he would. Then over his shoulder a voice said, "What kind of bike are we talking about here?"

"A Ducati."

"A what?"

"A Ducati 848. A mo-tor-cy-cle," Mello clarified.

Silence. Then after a few moments: "Are you ever going to tell me your name?"

Mello smiled to himself; he kept on walking and didn't bother to turn around. "I've been considering it."

"Okay, you wanna tell me what you do then?"

"Do? Well, here lately I've been working strictly in human resources. Sort of as an outside consultant. Elimination of redundancies and such..." Mello allowed the words to trail off, and this time he did glance around, and the look he saw on O'Malley's face...

Hmm...perhaps his meaning wasn't so completely lost after all. _Shit_. Maybe he really had said too much. Mello stopped walking then and turned and stared at O'Malley's face. Nothing but silence and the moment became somewhat...tense. And then, just as easily, all that tension simply dissipated. And O'Malley merely shrugged and said, "Whatever. If you don't wanna tell me anything about yourself, that's your prerogative."

Mello breathed an inner sigh of relief.

_But what if... _said a little voice in the back of his head, _What if he really knew about you and he honestly didn't care?_

_Bullshit, _countered a second voice.

_Not necessarily. _said the first voice. _ He just ran away from his supposed 'friend' like some kind of reprobate. And the man is obviously a world-class misanthrope, and going by his choice in men-namely Valentin Ceras-he seems to go for the gutter-wallowing, fucked-up type. And he pretty much told the world he was nothing more than a drunken whore. So how can he possibly judge you?_

_Being a 'drunken whore' is nothing compared to the murdering-backstabbing-blackmailing-stealing-manipulating that you do on a regular basis. _said the second voice. _There are different degrees of sin, Mihael. And all the 'Hail Mary's' in the world will never fix what you have done._

_A sin is a sin, _argued the first voice.

_This person is a danger to you, _a third voice cut in. _You shouldn't even be around him._

_And why not? _said the first voice.

_You know why. Because you've already begun to let your guard down. _said the third voice. _You're being careless and foolish. _ _It's_ _stupid. Why-when you've spent so much time building that hard, heartless little shell of yours, perfecting that cold, uncrackable mask of calculating ruthlessness-would you seek to screw it up by hanging out with someone you shouldn't be hanging out with? By being with someone who could-and probably would-put chinks in your mental armor? By being around someone who isn't part of your world-a world full of criminals and degenerates? Someone who..._

_...Someone who makes you feel alive again._

"Well-is this it?"

The question was enough to snap Mello out of the mental conversation he was having with himself. His feet had found his way back to his bike without consciously thinking about it. O'Malley was waiting hesitantly nearby.

The Irishman was giving the bike a rather dubious once-over. Without hesitation, Mello hopped right on. And then he waited. And waited some more. O'Malley still didn't move.

"Well?" Mello prompted.

"I've never been on one of those before," the photographer muttered.

"It's a smooth ride," Mello said, running a gloved finger over the bike's sleek red-and-black exterior, adding extra emphasis to his insinuating words.

O'Malley raised an eyebrow at that but didn't say anything about the double meaning of the comment. Instead, he said: "You should let me do a picture with you on it-"

"_-No!"_

O'Malley's head jerked back as if he'd been slapped. Mello's heart began trip-hammering in his chest. _See, _said the chiding little voice in the back of his head, _He _is_ a danger to you._

_Well, maybe I could use a little danger, _another voice countered.

_No! You're talking self-sabotage! _the other voice said. _You're letting your self-destructive streak muddy your logic-_

"-I just thought...well, I just thought that you looked good on it," said O'Malley by way of an apology.

"No. No-it's okay. I just...would rather you didn't."

"Hey-If you say 'no,' you say 'no'."

"Maybe it won't always be a 'no.'" Mello answered hurriedly. _Have you gone completely out of your mind?_ Then: "Do you still want-"

"-yes," O'Malley said without hesitation. And then-with what was an obvious mental effort-he climbed onto the seat of the bike behind Mello. Mello forced himself to relax as the photographer grasped him from behind, grabbing him a near-violent death grip. The spark of the unfamiliar contact sent a million obscene little thoughts racing through his mind, barreling through his head like a steam engine racing downhill on broken brakes. Mello felt a chill go down his spine, almost sensual, brutal in its intensity, as O'Malley whispered near his ear:

"I'll change your mind about the photo later..."

* * *

A hard rain began to pour down on them, slicking the darkened, trash-lined streets with a bone-chilling torrent, just as they pulled up outside the building that housed O'Malley's studio/apartment.

"This looks like some kind of antiques store," commented Mello as he jogged through the wet behind O'Malley, his boots slapping through the newly-formed puddles with a rhythmic _splish! splash! _O'Malley kept up an impressive string of swear words as he ran, obviously displeased with the sudden downpour.

"_GoddamitshitIcan'tstanditfuck _and_ Fuckmeit'scoldMotherfucker _and_ Shitthissucksholyhell..."_ And on and on he went. Mello couldn't help himself; he began to laugh. He actually rather liked the feel of running through the rain. It made him feel free; it made him feel happy. It made him feel like a little kid again. It made him feel...

_...alive._

The two of them-now thoroughly drenched-ducked into a small alcove by the side of the shop. "I live above the store. Third floor," O'Malley muttered by way of explanation. Another litany of curses began as he started searching for his keys.

"_'Shitit'scoldSonofabitch _and_ FuckthissucksWhycan'tIrememberwhereIputshit..."_

O'Malley finally got the door open and the two of them went inside, plodding wetly up the first flight of stairs. "Aren't you afraid of living down town?" asked Mello casually. "It's kind of scuzzy; dangerous-"

"-I don't care about that." said O'Malley.

"You don't?"

"Do I seem like someone who's all into his own self-preservation?"

"Definitely not," replied Mello. _And I like you all the more for it, _he thought.

Mello followed O'Malley up to the third floor and into his apartment. Though 'apartment' was the wrong word for it: the whole thing was just one big open space, with pieces of furniture and decor scattered haphazardly through it. There was no division between living room and workroom and bedroom. It was all jumbled together. Couch, drafting table, desk, breakfast table. Even his bed was left out in the open, in full view. Which, Mello noticed, appeared to be missing a post...

O'Malley headed for the only clearly defined area in the loft-namely that of the kitchen-which was really just one long, wooden island separating some cabinets, a fridge, a stove and a sink. O'Malley threw his camera bag and pea coat over the bar and went behind the island and grabbed a bottle of whisky off the back counter-it was one of several bottles, Mello noted, and with that much booze on display it really was more like a "bar" than a "kitchen." "I'm thinking an Irish coffee would be good for warming up," said O'Malley. Despite this proclamation, he didn't bother to get out any coffee; he simply poured the whisky into an empty glass and took a shot.

Mello wondered idly if the glass was for his benefit.

Mello sauntered over to the kitchen and leaned his elbows on the island. O'Malley took out another glass and said, in imitation of a bartender, "Name your poison," and gestured to the colorful array of bottles behind him.

"No thanks; I'm good."

"You sure? You look drenched." The Irishman paused. "And very...shiny."

Mello grinned. "This jacket's a bit heavy though." Even dry, all the hardware he was sporting tended to weigh him down.

"So get rid of it." Mello waited patiently as O'Malley turned back to one of the cabinets and began rummaging through it. Maybe he really was going to make that coffee. No matter. It was time for him to test a little theory he had going, even as the nagging little voice in the back of his head screamed at him, _Don't you dare_! And so, while the photographer's back was turned, he shrugged off his leather jacket and laid it down on the counter.

And then he casually took off his holster with the two guns it had been concealing and he laid those down on the counter, too. And then he waited.

O'Malley turned back around. He started to speak, but then his eyes fell on the two guns and he froze. Mello kept his expression perfectly neutral. This was a test, after all, and he wanted to see if the Irishman would pass it.

"That's..." O'Malley began and then stopped. He tried again: "Well, I can't say I've ever had that happen before."

Mello raised an eyebrow. He said nothing; he simply waited. Waited to see what the photographer would do.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that you're an undercover cop?" asked O'Malley.

"Wrong occupation."

"FBI?"

"Wrong again."

"Ah, see-now I'm really disappointed."

"How so?"

"I was secretly hoping you were a dominatrix."

Mello laughed. It looked like the outcome of his test was a good one. Obviously, if O'Malley could make a joke like that after seeing all his weaponry...Well, obviously he'd chosen the right man here.

"You gonna kick me out now?" Mello asked casually, and he began to pick at a basket of fruit filled with a bunch of rather dodgy-looking bananas. Apparently, there was more drinking than eating going on around here.

"No," O'Malley answered quietly. Still, there was apprehension in the way the Irishman stared at the two guns.

Funny, Mello felt the same way about the camera bag sitting next to them...

Mello pulled what looked to be a decent-looking apple from beneath the rotting bananas and took a bite without asking. He looked over at O'Malley, who was staring at him again. Staring at him in that funny way of his-

-_in a way_ _that made him feel like the most beautiful creature on the planet. Like the_ only _other creature on the planet._

_You idiot! _criticized the voice in his head. _You're showing him too much! Risking too much! And for what? For what?_

_For the chance to feel alive again, _answered a second voice.

"I want to take your picture," said O'Malley evenly.

"So you keep saying." Mello took another bite out of the apple.

O'Malley was staring at him hard. "I mean right _now_."

"_Now_?"

"Now." Then O'Malley said: " You asked me earlier tonight, what story would I tell about you."

"Yes..."

"Well, I have it." And the photographer's eyes flicked from his rosary, to the apple he held in his hand. Red on red. Then without warning, he grabbed both of their jackets and tossed them on the floor. He grabbed the strap of his camera bag and slung it over to the side of the sink. Likewise, he picked up Mello's gun holster-like it meant absolutely nothing-and put that by the sink as well. Then he patted the top of the bar. "Climb up here."

"What?"

"Lay. Down. On. Here." The Irishman patted the top of the bar again.

Mello raised both eyebrows. He said nothing, but in one swift, agile movement, he hauled himself up on top of the counter and swiveled around until his legs were stretched across it. O'Malley was now looking at him in a way that sent strange-but exciting-chills down his spine; it was almost as if, with just the heat of his gaze, he was touching him, caressing him...

"Lie down," the photographer commanded.

Mello obediently arranged himself in a reclining position on top of the counter. It wasn't at all comfortable, being stretched out on top of a bar like that. It was rather like being on top of one of those metal medical examination tables. Or even worse, a marble funeral slab...

O'Malley left the kitchen area then, but returned a mere few seconds later. He put three objects down on the counter by Mello's head: a bottle of what looked to be ink or paint, an artist's brush, and a strip of black cloth. O'Malley leaned over the bar, his face a scant few inches from Mello's own and said, "I'm going to...paint something on you now. And then I'm going to blindfold you."

"Ooh...kinky."

O'Malley merely shrugged as if to say, _So what?_ He then picked up the bottle of body paint and unscrewed the lid. He was staring at Mello so hard that Mello was finding it difficult to maintain eye contact. _Too much heat in that gaze...it's like staring into an open flame. _But that was okay, because then O'Malley said: "Turn your head to the right," and Mello was given the perfect excuse to look away.

"Now don't move..."

The touch of the brush on the side of his neck was feathery light; the paint left a snail's trail of cold in its wake. Mello closed his eyes, concentrating on the bizarre, alien feel of it. Every nerve cell in his body was tingling; his skin felt hyper-sensitive, set on a tripwire. Every gentle touch, every lick of that soft sable hair, blazed an outline of fire across his skin. Good God, this was absurd. What the hell was he going to do when he finally put that blindfold on, when he finally let him touch him? He was going to end up melting into a pile of ash; he was going to explode into a million fiery little pieces...

"What are you drawing?" Mello managed to croak out. His eyes remained stubbornly closed.

"A serpent," replied O'Malley. "To go with your apple." Then: "Don't worry; I'm a daub hand with a brush-"

"-I know you are." And Mello swallowed hard. It was difficult to remain still. The hairs on the brush were tickling him, and the paint was...itchy.

"I'm done now," announced O'Malley. "Give it a small moment to dry. Now-do you want me to tie this on, or do you want to do it?" The photographer held up the blindfold with both hands.

"I want you to do it," Mello answered without hesitation. He lifted himself up on his elbows and waited. The dark, satiny cloth was dropped over his face, and his world was turned into midnight. He could tell from his movements that the photographer was being especially careful with the tie. Then suddenly, there was the feel, the press of fingers on the side of his face, a hand touching his jaw: his head was tilted gently to the right, then to the left. It was all unexpectedly sensual. Then the fingers were gone, and there was a hand pressing against his shoulder, urging him back. "It looks good," said O'Malley. And Mello thought he could hear a certain roughness, a strain in his voice.

Mello felt his hand being lifted, felt an object being placed into it. "Your apple, sir," said O'Malley. Then he heard footsteps retreating, moving away from him. All sounds, he supposed, were heard more keenly-sounded louder-in the absence of sight.

"So...do you want me to just stay like this?"

In answer, the footsteps returned, and Mello could sense O'Malley hovering over him, could almost feel what he knew was the photographer's hot, near smoldering gaze raking over him. He thought about taking off the blindfold, but he felt paralyzed. So he waited. The fingers returned; they encircled his left wrist, guided his gloved hand down to rest against the side of the bar. And then-

-Mello's breath hitched audibly in his throat as he felt a hand grab his ankle and shove his right leg back until his knee was bent at an angle. His heart was thrumming in his chest and his lips parted and he whispered, "What are you doing?" He had taken his now-trembling hand from the side of the bar, but those fingers-that hand-grabbed it again, and shoved it back down into place.

"Just adding a little visual interest. Getting the eye to follow the correct line..." And Mello could plainly hear the undertone of amusement in the photographer's voice. His face, he knew, was now suffused with heat. Because he thought-

Well, what he thought had obviously been wrong...

"O'Malley?"

"Yes?" There was a kind of shuffling sound, a movement at the back counter.

"Promise me something..."

"What?"

"That you won't show this picture to anyone. Ever."

"Oh? Why?"

"Just promise me?"

He heard sounds, and he knew then what it was: the camera being lifted, being taken out of its bag. The thing-the weapon-that might be the possible death of him.

_What a self-destructive fool..._

"Promise me. Say it."

"Alright. I promise."

"Really?"

"Really."

"No one. Ever."

"Forever and ever. Yey. I got it." A small pause. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. Why?" Now it was Mello's turn to question.

"Because-because it's going to look_ really_ damn exquisite..."

End Chapter 6.

_Sorry, this was supposed to come out sooner. But I had a false start, sort of..._


	8. Chapter 7: Threat

_Now we return a few month's later..._

Chapter 7: Threat

Under a blood red safe light, around an austere shop room table, the chemical trays vibrated rhythmically under a pounding stereo system. Industrial rock music cranked up to an ear-splitting volume bounced loudly off the walls of the small darkroom, obliterating any and all other sound.

_The perfect little dream_

_The kind that hurts the most_

_Forgot how it feels_

_Well, almost_

_No one to blame_

_Always the same_

_Open my eyes_

_And wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up_

_In flames..._

_It took you to make me realize_

_It took you to make me realize_

_It took you to make me realize_

_It took you to make me see the light..._

_Smashed up my sanity_

_Smashed up integrity_

_Smashed up all I believe in_

_Smashed up what's left of me_

_Smashed up my everything_

_Smashed up all that was true_

_Gonna smash myself to pieces_

_I don't know what else to do..._

O'Malley scooped up a piece of photo paper from a row of metal trays with a pair of tongs and laid it aside. Sharply defined black-and-white shapes were just beginning to emerge onto the surface of the paper. He thought about his old dark room in the loft above the antiques shop and felt a twinge of nostalgia at its loss-it had been much bigger and much less stuffy than this one. The ventilation system in his current darkroom was so poor that he was probably killing off his brain cells at an ungodly rate, a fact which he would often blithely ignore, working non-stop until fresh air became an overwhelming imperative. Like now. After spending about an hour inside the tiny, enclosed space, he could feel his head starting to swim from the pungent miasma of heavy chemicals. And so he reached out and switched off the music, flipped off the safe lights, and flung open the door to his living room, his eyes squinting, blinking their adjustment to the softer, golden tones cast by the day lamps within his condo.

There was a strange boy sitting on his couch.

O'Malley tried to blink the image away. But no-the boy remained where he was. Maybe the effects of the chemicals were stronger than he thought; maybe he was hallucinating. It was a small hope, and one that was completely obliterated the moment the 'hallucination' started to speak.

"Good afternoon, Mr. O'Malley."

The curly-haired apparition sat comfortably on his couch, in a white-button down shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He allowed one leg to dangle languidly, while the other was bent, heel resting on the edge of the couch. The pose was casual, the outfit was casual, but the boy's air was anything but: there was an aura of authority about him, a strong sense of presence that went well beyond his assumed years, well beyond his simple, disheveled appearance. There was a kind of quiet confidence, a silent seriousness about him. He had an air which said, "I own the room."

O'Malley was rooted to the spot. "And just who the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?"

The boy ignored both of his questions. Instead, the boy said: "I've been waiting out here for you for quite some time, you know." His tone was clipped, devoid of any kind of emotion. "I should have thought, with such a poor ventilation system, you would have been driven out of your confines well before now. You do know that hydroquinone and borates are both known to have adverse effects on the respiratory system? Especially after such a prolonged exposure-"

"-did you just drop by to give me a lesson on darkroom procedure? Because I don't really need it-"

"-Not to mention the possibility of metol poisoning. To stay in such a small, enclosed area with those kind of chemicals is ludicrous. And dangerous. And very, very stupid."

O'Malley laughed, but it was a laugh tinged with a faint hint of hysteria. "Are you calling me stupid?"

The boy's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "No. I don't think that. You do tend to ignore danger, though. In fact, you seem to purposely invite it on a regular basis-"

"-Oh, like now? I didn't invite you in, granted, but you did manage to slip by me..."

A tiny smile formed on the boy's face. It's effect was not in the least bit pleasant, and it seemed to say: "Ha! I got one over on you!" It was a smile which smacked of conceit. It made O'Malley almost want to punch him in the face. "I assure you, Mr. O'Malley, that I'm not any kind of danger to you..."

_...at least not yet, anyway. _That seemed to be the unspoken subtext.

"So just what are you doing here then?" O'Malley's eyes narrowed and his words grew frostier, a counterpoint to his heated, rising anger.. He did not like surprises. And he did not like visitors. So surprise visitors were far, far from his liking...

"I'm not here because of you, per se. I'm here because of a certain photo you have in your possession."

O'Malley looked confused. "That's...a strange thing to say."

The boy carried on, undaunted. "And what's more, you were going to publish said photo in a book, and this book...well, let's just say that I can't allow that to happen."

The whole conversation, the whole encounter, was taking on a surreal feeling. "You mean...you mean you're pissed off at me because of a picture and-"

O'Malley abruptly stopped talking then. He thought back to about two days ago, to a conversation he had with his agent over the phone. His rather hysterical agent...

"_The whole freakin' warehouse just burned down!"_

"_What?" O'Malley shouted into his cell. He was, as usual, sitting inside a pub. A rather noisy pub. And he was already deep in his cups..._

"_Your book, O'Malley! Our book-all ten thousand copies, the whole first print run, up in smoke! God, are you even listening to me? Do you know what I'm saying? We're going to have to reprint..."_

O'Malley shook his head, shook the embers of the remembered conversation away. A conversation he had thought little about at the time. But now...

"Hey! Did you-did you have something to do with that fire?"

The small, unpleasant smile returned.

"Ah...I see." With that, O'Malley bowed his head, in a kind of defeated gesture. He stood, unmoving, before the entrance of his darkroom. And then-

-and then, without warning, he smashed the darkroom door back against the wall, back against the armed man who was standing silently behind it. The man cried out once in pained surprised, before O'Malley smacked him hard in the face with the door a second time. Then the Irishman deftly kicked the gun the man had been holding out of his grasp. It arced across the room and spun across the floor.

The boy on the couch didn't move once, didn't react at all. All he said was: "Finally showing your true colors then?"

"His presence was making conversation somewhat difficult," replied O'Malley. He longed to kick the now-unarmed man in the face. It was an urge he resisted-barely.

"Gevanni, could you please leave the room?" the boy addressed the young man in the dark suit with the now-bleeding nose.

"But boss-" said Gevanni, who was eyeing the photographer doubtfully.

"No 'buts.' Leave. Now." The boy's softly issued command left no room for argument. Gevanni cast O'Malley one last disparaging glance before exiting the apartment. O'Malley knew that he wouldn't stray any farther than the outside of his front door...

"Just who the fuck are you people?" asked O'Malley, whirling around to glare at the boy on the couch. His stance screamed lines of tension, his eyes flashed green with a burgeoning threat.

"That doesn't matter-"

"-Doesn't it?"

"I could give you a name-"

"-Yes?"

"But it would be an alias. Much like your own."

And then all the air went out of the room. No, more than that: it was as if some specter, some forgotten ghost, had slipped up behind O'Malley and grabbed him around the throat, effectively choking off his windpipe. For a few seconds, he literally ceased to breathe. And then, after several thudding, heart-pounding moments, he spoke. His voice was little more than a dark whisper:

"And just what do you mean by that?"

"Oh, I believe you know precisely what I mean, Mr M-"

-O'Malley grabbed the curly-haired boy by the throat, shoving him violently back into the couch cushions. His voice was icy clear as he said: "You say that name and I will punch you in the face..."

The boy's face didn't register anything at all: not shock, not fear, not anything. In the calmest, most dulcet tones the boy replied: "Fine then. I won't say it. As I said before, I'm not here because of you-"

-O'Malley abruptly released his hold on the boy and stepped back a pace. He was impressed by the boy's composure, his sense of control. His fearlessness. He appreciated it, but it was more than a bit unnerving-especially since, it seemed, the boy knew far too much about him. That could only bode ill for him...

"As I was saying, Mr. O'Malley," the boy continued, just as if the photographer's violent outburst had never happened. "I'm here because of a specific photo of yours-"

"Which fucking photo?"

The boy cast his rather dead-looking eyes down toward the carpet. "It looks like-" and here he faltered, stumbled. He seemed quite unable to find the words. O'Malley watched as the boy's eyebrows knit together in the subtlest of gestures, revealing only the tiniest little flash of emotion, the tiniest hint of consternation. Then the boy reached up to the breast pocket of his shirt, and pulled out a photo of his own, a small 5X7 that was worn with age. Despite it being several years old, O'Malley recognized the subject of the photo right away.

"Oh. _Him_."

The boy didn't react to O'Malley's unflattering tone. "I need that photo of him, the negatives, the book, all of it. I need it to disappear-"

"-you're joking?"

"Oh, I'm deadly serious," the boy answered dispassionately. "I'm not joking. I need you to make that happen. Otherwise...things might become rather unpleasant for you."

O'Malley laughed then, but it was a cold, bitter laughter: a laughter hardened, engendered by the remembrance of deeds past, by darkened memories that were tainted by scores of regret. He slowly approached the boy on the couch, leaning in to place both hands on either side of his cherub-like head. "Well, then," he said almost in a whisper, "if it's true that you actually know who I really am-"

-and here O'Malley leaned in close, close enough so that his face and the boy's were almost touching-

"_-then you should know better than to come around here threatening me."_

The air in the living room crackled with a heady tension; it sizzled like a live wire. The whispered threat was allowed to hang, like a dreaded preamble to impending violence. The boy on the couch remained perfectly still; his eyes never left those of O'Malley's. His round, dark gaze never wavered, never failed, not once. Finally, it was O'Malley who looked away first, who turned away from the boy...

"I knew he was trouble," he said quietly, bitterly. "The moment I laid eyes on him. Like calls to like, you know. Oh, he came along like the perfect kind of penance-"

"-Mr. O'Malley, I understand why it is you might want to do him harm-"

"Do him harm? Do _him _harm? Ha! Boy, I don't have tears enough to shed over what your little blond friend has done to me. And as for 'harm,' well, I could have done far more to him than mere 'harm' on that night. You've seen the photo. I had ample opportunity-"

"-So why didn't you?"

O'Malley looked down at the floor. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. Things long forgotten, but suddenly remembered, were taking hold in a way that he did not like, in a way he did not care for. Too many feelings of a dark, conflicting nature warred inside him. And then he said:

"I don't know. Maybe God stayed my hand. Maybe..."

_It was dark. And it was raining. And there was a broken rosary on the ground. And there was blood everywhere, everywhere..._

The Irishman allowed the words to trail off as he remembered that image; he allowed the question to go unanswered. "Does it really matter? I let him walk away that night in one piece, and I haven't seen him since. I put a whole ocean between us-I took a job in London not two days after that picture was taken. And then, when I got back, I moved to the opposite side of town. I've tried so hard to forget all about him-" and here he looked down with angry eyes at the boy on the couch "-but now here you are bringing it all back up again."

"I'm sorry," the boy said, in what might have been actual sincerity. "Really. But harassing you really isn't part of my agenda. The photo-"

"-to _hell_ with the photo!"

The boy's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Mr. O'Malley. Please. Let's try and make this a civil exchange."

O'Malley glared at the boy on the couch: at his nerve, at his inability to let this thing with the photo go. He personally didn't care anything about the photo; it's inclusion in the book had been a mere accident, a whim on the part of his agent. It had meant absolutely nothing...

But apparently it meant something to the boy on the couch. And apparently it meant something to the blond boy-his model-whom he hadn't seen in six months. It meant something to both of them.

"_O'Malley, promise me you won't show this to anybody..."_

O'Malley closed his eyes, remembering the moment. The moment when the boy was splayed out on his bar, his eyes covered, helpless, suspecting nothing. And there were two pistols, just lying there, right on the counter. Ready, at hand. And he did nothing. He did absolutely nothing. He could have put an end to it all that night, yet he didn't. He should have felt good about that decision; he should have felt cleansed. But he didn't. _He didn't._ It merely felt like another kind of defeat-a defeat he just couldn't abide. And in the end, he lifted his head to the curly-haired boy and said:

"Just get the fuck out of my house!"

End Chapter 7.

_Song lyrics are from "Gave Up" by Nine Inch Nails._

_I'd like to send a special thanks out to J. Piper, for being a faithful reader-and now editor. :)_

_And to the 7 people who are reading this, my schedule is going to be fairly unpredictable for the next two weeks, so updates may not be as fast or as consistent in coming..._

_Thanks for reading...  
_


	9. Chapter 8: Once

Chapter 8: Once

_5 years earlier..._

_Buzz-buzz...buzz-buzz...buzz-buzz..._

O'Malley, nee McCready, stirred groggily against the settee's plush red velvet cushions as an annoying sound buzzed repeatedly somewhere by his head. He raised his hand in a sleepy attempt to swat it away, but the sound just kept on going: _buzz-buzz...buzz-buzz.._. He groped around, and when his fingers finally encountered hard plastic, he reluctantly cracked open one eye to stare at the noise-producing object in front of him: namely, his cell phone. It kept buzzing and bouncing over the upholstery like an overly excited cricket. McCready grabbed the device and flipped it open to the little glowing screen within. Written across it was a single line of text in all caps:

_WHERE R U, U BASTARD?_

McCready furrowed his brow and scrolled downward to the next text:

_WE'RE GONNA B LATE!_

He scrolled down even further:

_STOP SHAGGING FOR 1 SEC & CALL ME BACK, ASSHOLE!_

McCready stared in bleary-eyed annoyance at the time on the phone. "Shit," he muttered and began to rapidly stab at buttons:

_At A's, pick me up in 15._

McCready clicked the phone shut and scratched distractedly at his shaggy red hair. He was lying on his stomach stark naked on the settee, and he began to grope around underneath it in a half-hearted search for his clothes. He put the pieces on as he encountered them: t-shirt, underwear, pants, a random sock. His long bangs fell forward across his face, almost hiding the faded, wine-colored bruise that was arched over his left eye-the remnants of a black-eye he'd received during a bar fight the week before.

McCready swept a searching look across the room as he sat tying his shoes. No sign of Arthur; the only things in evidence were the trappings of his trade: a black and chrome camera sitting alone on a tripod, a couple of lights on adjustable metal stands, and tons of framed photos lined up on the walls-mostly of smiling, wholesome, God-fearing families. The McCready's own family portrait was situated among these-in fact, the taking of that family photo had been how he'd met Arthur.

That had been a little over a year ago.

McCready got up and headed toward the red-painted door leading into Arthur's dark room. He was vaguely surprised that his and Arthur's relationship-if it could even be called such a thing-had lasted this long. Arthur was more than a decade older than he, and McCready had never even seen the inside of Arthur's actual home, only his photography studio. Probably because Arthur's live-in lover of seven years wouldn't appreciate the intrusion. So they arranged to meet twice weekly at his studio instead. It was a set-up that McCready thought worked well. This way, he could keep his 'lifestyle' a secret from his overbearing Irish Catholic parents, and Arthur could keep him a secret from his long-time lover. The two of them were basically locked together in an ongoing stalemate of mutual collusion. And McCready, surprisingly, wanted it to remain that way.

He was already getting very good at hiding various pieces of his identity.

McCready pounded on the outside of the red door. A noise of assent came from somewhere inside. McCready pushed open the door, closed it, and slid back the hanging black-out curtain that stood as an extra precaution against the light. The inside of the room was blood-red; it was like being trapped inside a giant womb. Arthur was busy at work, poised over his developing tray. His tongs were ready and he was watching an egg timer sitting on a shelf. "Can you take those prints out of the fixer and wash them?" he motioned to McCready with the metal tongs.

McCready moved to another metal tray and took up a differently marked set of tongs. He scooped a print out of the fixing solution and moved it over to the sink. He turned the water on and began the rinsing process, mentally ticking off the minutes. He hardly payed any attention to what he was actually doing; he'd seen this process so many times he could probably do it in his sleep.

"Callum's picking me up in a few," said McCready at last.

Arthur merely nodded. There was a tenseness to that nod, because McCready knew, without it being said, that Arthur harbored a kind of irrational jealousy over the relationship between McCready and his older brother, Callum. Callum: the only other person on the planet whom he trusted completely; the only other person who knew the real him. Callum, to whom he was completely, unswervingly loyal. Callum, for whom he would drop everything in a second, just to go running to his side...

Well, Arthur didn't like the hold Callum had on him-didn't like being in second place. He didn't say it out loud, but McCready could tell.

The timer went off and Arthur snatched up the print and moved it into the stop bath. After laying the metal tongs aside, he turned to McCready, and said, with a serious expression:

"Rohan..."

McCready jumped and mentally began to panic. There was no real reason for it, but there was something in Arthur's tone, in the way he said his name...The photographer looked positively demonic beneath the blood-red color of the safe light. McCready's heart was pounding like a jack-hammer, because he was certain-absolutely certain-that the next words out of Arthur's mouth were going to be something along the lines of: "Rohan, I've finally decided to leave Bill and I want you to move in with me...I love you."

McCready was horrified. Goddam it, he couldn't have Arthur fucking up his perfectly compartmentalized life like that...

McCready tossed down the tongs. "I've gotta go," he said abruptly and then all but bolted from the dark room, as if the very demons of a blood red, photo-producing hell were chasing after him. His heavy boots clunked loudly across the floor of the overly bright studio as he went. He could feel Arthur's presence at his back, could feel his perplexed stare.

"Rohan?"

McCready paused at the coat rack by the front door, in order to retrieve two important items: his knee length, black canvas trench coat, the one that his mum had bought him for Christmas earlier that year, and-

-a brown leather holster with two fully loaded pistols, this being a gift from his older brother.

McCready risked a glance at Arthur, who was standing in the dark room doorway, and what he saw written across the other's man face hit him like a sucker punch: a look of regret, of infinite sorrow. _No, damn it! It's not supposed to be like this! Not like this! _The two of them never discussed the holster with the guns, didn't talk about their silent meaning. It was an unspoken rule. But Arthur knew; he had to. The McCreadys were an Irish Catholic family firmly planted within the bowels of Hell's Kitchen, and if the guns and the occasional black eyes and the sudden, random absences in the middle of the day weren't enough to tip him off-well, Arthur would have to have been deaf, dumb and blind not to have noticed _something_.

And damn Arthur for pitying him-for wanting to take him out of that life, a life away from his criminally-inclined family. This wasn't some goddam Cinderella story they were working out here. He didn't need Arthur to save him, for god's sake. He didn't need _anyone_ to save him. He could damn well take care of himself.

McCready wordlessly slammed the door-and Arthur's unasked for sorrow-securely behind him, and walked away.

* * *

McCready slouched against a streetlamp beside the road, his hands stuffed deep within his pockets, waiting for his older brother. A few minutes later a mossy green Pontiac GTO pulled up to the curb, and his scowling, blond, blue-eyed sibling leaned across to the open passenger side window and said,

"Get in, douchebag."

McCready slid into the passenger's seat and Callum peeled off. Seeing the expression on his younger brother's face, Callum said:

"Hey-did that asshole do something to you? 'Cause if he did, I'll fucking kick his ass. I mean it. I don't fucking like that jerk-off."

McCready rubbed his temples as his older brother's New York Irish ghetto accent pounded against his ear drums. "He didn't do anything, Cal."

"I don't care. I still don't like him. Screwing around on you like that. He deserves a good old-fashioned ass-kicking, I swear to god."

"Speaking of screwing around, how's _Mrs. _Dansworth?"

"Don't fucking start, Rohan. It's not the same thing-"

"-the fuck it isn't! The moment her truck driving husband sets foot out the door, there you are, sneaking in, servicing the guy's missus behind his back-"

"-shut-up, douche! Me and Rosie are square."

"You're gonna be fucked, is what you're gonna be, when that baby she's carrying turns out to be a little McCready. Her husband's gonna come knocking on the door with a loaded gun for sure-OW!"

McCready winced as his brother punched him in the arm. "Fucker!" yelled McCready, and violently punched him back. Back and forth they went, the car careening wildly, with the two of them punching, ranting, airing out the same tired, familiar accusations, until finally Callum said:

"Man, we need to get our own place."

"Agreed."

"We gotta move out of our parents' house..."

"Yey, absolutely."

"...before dad finds out what either of us are doing."

Both brothers shivered involuntarily. They may have been hard drinking, hard fighting, gun-toting Irishmen, but nothing scared them more than the sanctimonious wrath of their hardcore Irish Catholic father. The man was a fucking believer. A bible-quoting, sabbath observing, live-by-the-good-book-or-not-at-all fucking believer. McCready had once told Arthur that his old man would shoot them both if he found out what they were doing. And he had been deadly serious in that statement. If Connor McCready found out his middle son was queer-well, he would disown him so fast his strawberry head would spin.

And never mind all the other, illegal things he and his brother got up to...

But these acts were not committed at the behest of their father. Oh no-the orders came down from their uncle Joseph, who was the real power in the family. Strictly speaking, Joseph McCready owned a string of perfectly legal pubs and restaurants in the New York area, but he also dealt in a lot of illegal things below the bar: embezzlement, prostitution, the sale and movement of stolen goods, extortion, drugs-basically, all the underworld goodies. His roots in the Irish mob ran firm and deep, and like most "family run" mob operations, Joseph preferred to leave things in the capable, trustworthy hands of his family members. So the fact that he employed two of his own nephews to act as his sometimes very violent left hand seemed like a very sound, very logical, business decision-nothing more. If that decision ran contrary to the moral beliefs of his own strict, overbearing Catholic brother, well, what Connor didn't know wouldn't hurt him...

"So, where are we off to?" asked McCready.

"To Kevin and Maeve's birthday party, you douchebag! God, I can't believe you forgot!"

"Shit! That's today?"

"Yes, it's today! And we're already late, goddam it-I told you! Mum sent me to fetch your derelict ass-"

"-sorry," McCready muttered, and slumped down in the seat like a pouting, chastised four-year-old. Great...now his mum was going to be pissed at him. Actually, both of his parents were. He was never going to hear the end of this...

The two brothers rode in silence the rest of the way. Their destination was one of uncle Joseph's restaurants, closed to the public so an extravagant, family-only party could be thrown in honor of their twin siblings' thirteenth birthdays. Their uncle was nothing, if not generous. And all the McCreadys in the area were going to be gathered at the restaurant for the occasion. The thought of having to be around that many family members all at once made Rohan's stomach do flip-flops.

"Pull around back," said McCready as they neared their destination.

"Why?"

"I don't want to go through the parade of relatives in the front of house. Aunt Patty's gonna squeeze me so hard my ribs'll crack and then Aunt Dee will tell me to get a haircut-not to mention a girlfriend-and cousin Roland will tell us both to get real jobs and-gah! I can't take it!"

"Okay, okay. We'll go through the kitchen."

McCready remained slumped in his seat as Callum pulled the Pontiac into a back alleyway. The car bumped to a slow stop, and as Callum killed the ignition, McCready noticed a flash of something odd in his rear view mirror. Callum had started talking again, but McCready ignored him. Instead, he carefully opened the door, slipped through it, and fell quietly to the ground, as soft and as silent as a falling feather...

"What the fuck?" McCready heard his brother say from inside the car.

"Freeze, you stupid Mick!" There was the click of a gun being drawn from the opposite side of the car.

"Watch where you're pointin' that thing, man! Someone's liable to get hurt," said Callum in an altogether too calm voice.

"Shut up and get out of the car, idiot."

McCready stared at the pair of feet underneath the car. It wouldn't make for the best shot in the world, but still...

He pulled out his Walthers and fired from his spot on the ground-at the exact same time Callum decided to slam the car door into the guy's ribs. The guy hit the dirt, and his eyes met McCready's underneath the space of the car just as McCready fired a second shot straight at his head.

"Fucking Dago!" McCready heard his brother say as he got out of the car, kicking the now motionless body out of his way as he went. McCready bounded up from the other side, and his brother just looked at him. "God, you're a sneaky bastard-what the hell?"

"Something's wrong," was McCready's only answer.

His brother nodded stoically. Drawing their guns, the two of them headed for the back entrance of the restaurant.

* * *

The two brothers crept noiselessly through the restaurant's back door, weaving through a narrow hallway lined with boxes of produce, stacks of cups, buckets of flour and sugar and other basic kitchen accoutrements. There was an ominous silence in the air; the atmosphere was thick with it, a kind of noxious fume that made one sick just to breathe it. In absolute silence, the two McCreadys approached the stainless steel double doors that led out into the dining area of the restaurant. And Rohan, who was taller than his older brother, caught a fatal glimpse through the swinging door's glass pane and-

-he burst through the double doors without thinking, propelled forward by the blood-soaked images he saw through the glass. A bullet exploded in the wall mere inches from his head, shattering the plaster, and he heard his brother screaming his name, felt Callum pulling him back by the collar of his coat. His brother all but bodily hauled him back through the stainless steel doors. McCready fell to the ground, trembling uncontrollably . "Callum, my god, did you see-"

Another bullet annihilated one of the glass panes in the door, shattering it like a hail of diamonds. McCready was frozen in an awkward crouch on the ground, his hands shaking, unable to move. _Good god! There was so much blood! Everywhere! So many of his relatives, just lying there, unmoving! And his little brother and sister..._

Callum was shaking him, yelling at him. "Rohan, get up! I need you to move! Now! Steady on!"

"Callum, you didn't see..."

"Rohan-up! Now!" His brother shoved his own gun through the now open window and fired. The sound of bullets reverberated through the restaurant; the return fire ricocheted off the metal doors. It was awful. His older brother's hands were completely, confidently steady.

The firing suddenly ceased. And in the ensuing silence, a voice called out from somewhere beyond:

"Well...the infamous McCready brothers, I presume?"

Rohan's head snapped up at that; he watched his brother by the doorway-his brother who stood as still as a statue: armed, silent, and scowling. Then the voice said:

"We've been waiting for the two of you to arrive. Couldn't wrap up this shindig without you boys, no siree..."

More silence followed. When there wasn't a response, the voice said:

"You two might as well come on out of there. You're outgunned, three to one."

McCready watched as Callum's eyes narrowed slightly at this information. He could see the calculating look on his face. But what he didn't expect was for his brother to say:

"Rohan, I want you to go out the back. Now. I'll cover you..." The frank, fatalistic tone in his brother's command didn't go amiss.

"What? No! I'm not leaving you here! I won't-"

"-goddam it, Rohan-just do as I say!" and here his brother hauled him up by the collar again, pushed him in the direction of the back hallway.

"I'm not going!" Another hard shove, a determined look. _He thinks we're both going to die here..._

McCready was aware of the rather shaky truce that existed between the Italian and Irish mobs in Hell's Kitchen...so shaky that both factions knew that it was just a matter of time before they went to war with one another again. Well, something had apparently, finally, broken that truce. And that something was enough to cause the Italians to move in on the McCready clan, in the most dishonorable, despicable way possible...

The look in his brother's eyes was desperate. "Rohan, go..." he couldn't stand the resignation in Callum's voice, the sound of defeat.

_He would die for you, you know he would..._

McCready locked eyes with his brother; an unspoken exchange flew back and forth between them. And McCready hesitated briefly, once, before turning. Before turning to round the corner leading into the back hallway-

-where he walked straight into the barrel of a gun...

End Chapter 8.

_Sorry for the delay, but both my work schedule and life schedule are sucking away my writing time. It's as if I'm writing on an egg timer, stealing minutes..._


	10. Chapter 9: Fire

_Author's Note: Since I've went ahead and started another plot-filled multi-chap fic., this one has sort of taken a back seat. I fear I may have tarried too long in this fandom. Anyhow, I don't like to leave things unfinished, so I will work on this one when I have the time (or I need a break from my other story). So, to the 8 people who are reading this, I apologize-updates will be erratic, and few._

Chapter 9: Fire

Death didn't come for them right away.

No, the two of them were shoved into the back of a car-a big Impala with windows tinted the color of night-and driven off to some dive bar on the very edge of Hell's Kitchen, a dirty place with a shady back room, the kind where folks liked to come to do illicit business...

...or where you went if you wanted to knock someone off.

And underneath the glare of a sickly yellow light, they had strapped his brother to a high-backed dining chair with some bungee cord, an oak chair so large that it almost resembled a throne, and some big guy-ironically named Sally-was pacing back and forth in front of him, screaming and gesticulating with his hands. And his brother, as usual, was all steely blue eyes and prolific swear words...

But even steel could be melted down...

Rohan flinched as he watched Sally delivered another hard right to Callum's jaw. His head snapped to the side and blood arced across the floor. Rohan was being held by two thugs on either arm, and every time he tried to move, he got a whack of a gun butt to the back of his head. Still, that didn't stop him from reacting to his brother's predicament, despite the amount of pain it was causing him.

"Admit it! You did it! And under your spud-sucking uncle's orders, too! You torched that place, didn't you?"

"I didn't do shit!"

"Admit it! You and your scum relative plotted it. There were people inside that building, you know-"

"-oh, fuck you and fuck your mother!" Callum sneered as he spat out his favorite offensive epitaph, earning him another right hook. This time when his head snapped to the side, Rohan thought he saw him spit out a tooth.

Sally got right up in his brother's face. He looked like a hawk that was about to take down his prey. "Listen, you no-good Mick. Whether you want to admit it or not, you're dead in the water. You got that? Dead. In. The. Water..." the man's words were little more than a threatening whisper. "However, you spit out the details, give us over some names, and I may be more inclined to make your exit out of this world a little more...easy."

Callum laughed mirthlessly, showing teeth stained red with blood. "You expect me to believe that, you lying sack of shit dago? Do you?"

_Wham!_

Sally hit him so hard that the chair teetered back and crashed to the floor. Rohan looked at his brother's upside down, bloodied face. His face, which had remained resiliently, stoically blank up until now. Until the moment they both locked eyes. Then, without a sound, he saw his brother mouth the words:

_I'm so sorry..._

"I've had enough of dealing with this piece of shit," spat Sally. "George, Mickey-go out to the car and get that can of gas out of the trunk-"

Rohan's eyes went wide, and he started struggling again. And again, he was hit in the back of the head. The world tilted precariously with his swirling, blurry vision...

"-is this place covered?"

"Yey, boss. I got that Mello guy up on the roof with a sniper's rifle. We're cool."

"Good. I don't want any interruptions. Ah, George...the can."

The dread-locked man named George handed over an innocent looking plastic drum of back-up fuel. Rohan watched as the other man with him, Mickey, pushed the chair with Callum in it back into an upright position. Then he said:

"You sure you wanna do this here, boss?" As if this were a questionable idea.

"Fuck yey. Why not?" Then: "You ready to die, you stupid Mick?" Callum's face was pure stone as Sally began to twist the top off the container.

At this, Rohan went nuts. He was hit in the back of the head repeatedly, but to no avail. And then, as if noticing his presence for the first time, Sally stormed over to him and grabbed him by the hair, tilting his head back.

"Stop your squirming junior. Or I'll get a second can just for you. You got that? For now, you can just watch."

Sally tossed away the cap and he began circling Callum, systematically dousing him with gasoline. The smell was overwhelming. It was the kind of pungent, distinctive scent that curled up and took up residence within the psyche, made it impossible for one to forget. Ever. Even five years on, five years after the fact, Rohan still couldn't bear the scent of gasoline; it literally made him violently, physically ill. It was one of the reasons he could never own a car...

Sally tossed the now empty gas can aside. The other four men in the room had gone deathly, expectantly silent. There was only a single keening sound, a single high-pitched whimper. And this, Rohan realized, was coming, unbidden, from his very own throat.

"Say your prayers, asshole." And Sally reached into his blazer, took out a silver zeppo lighter...

Callum was indeed praying. A steady stream of ancient Gaelic, a prayer which had belonged to their mother. The old tongue, the tongue of the mother country. Rohan was shaking, shaking uncontrollably beneath the grip of his captors.

"Don't do this," he whispered at last. Whispered beseechingly, uselessly...

And then Sally snapped the zeppo alight, and threw it in his brother's face.

* * *

_Sometimes you wake up..._

_Sometimes you wake up, when you really wish that you were dead..._

_And not only are you not dead, but you are also not dreaming. Everything...everything is fantastically, fatally real._

_Memory is just a grim reaper walking neatly through the corridors of your past with a scythe, cutting down everyone you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved. And suddenly, the consequences of your normal, everyday life are vividly, irrevocably real. Disturbingly, painfully real. And in your unwavering, unswerving loyalty to family-a fealty that was both innocently and naively given-you finally realize something: that your life is not a normal way of life. That your life-a life of stealing, violence, blackmail, and murder-is not the way that most people live. No, it only seemed that way at the time, only seemed normal within the tiny incubation chamber of your own family's insulated, unapologetic way of being. And your life, as it turns out, comes filled, loaded, with unexpected, dangerous, and unendurable consequences. Irreversible consequences.  
_

_But this realization comes far too late for you. It is a knowledge that saves no one, redeems nothing…_

_And in the end, you are still alive, alive and awake, and left to wallow in your own quagmire of misery, of guilt and regret…_

_

* * *

_

Rohan lay, twitching, on the very razor's edge of consciousness. A turn of his head, and he felt his insides immediately quiver in protest, balk at that tiny fraction of a movement. He could feel the plum-sized lump nesting on the back of his head, all ripe and swollen, tender to the touch. He couldn't remember how it came to be there, could not remember whether he was simply beaten into unconsciousness, beaten into oblivion. Or perhaps his mind had just slipped away on its own accord, curled itself into a welcoming blanket of pure black, far away from the horrors that had taken place right in front of him.

_ Do not think of it…_

But there was no escaping it. Memory was an ill-favored, malicious bitch who was making it a point to torture him, taunting him with the garish, techni-colored images of pure evil which he could neither change nor forget nor escape. He literally wanted to curl up and die. If he could have willed it, he would have. But he wasn't so lucky. He was alive. Alive and awake. A miserable situation to be in, when all he wanted to do was die, die, die. When all he wanted was oblivion.

_Please let me die. Don't make me live too long._

Rohan opened his eyes and stared at the checkered cover beneath him: a cover stained with dried blood-from the back of his own throbbing head, no doubt. He was surprised to find himself lying on a bed, a small affair with a wooden country frame, on top of a faded old quilt. It was strange. _Why didn't they just kill me? Why am I here?_ Rohan shifted his weight, encountered resistance. That's when he realized his right arm was cuffed to one of the slats in the headboard.

_ No escape._

But he didn't want to escape. What he wanted was to die.

In the silent gloom, memory assailed him. There were phantom screams in his ear, high-pitched and inhuman. And the smell—oh god, the smell—

_Stop this!_

But it was hard. Too hard to stop the continuous parade of black images, when he was all alone in a darkened room with only his own traitorous thoughts for company. The waiting was unbearable. The silence was unbearable. His own thoughts were unbearable. He longed, like a lover, for the comfort of a loaded gun…

Eventually, there came the sound of heavy foot steps outside the door.

The click of a lock being turned; the creak of a door pushed inward. Rohan blinked impassively as the man with the dread locks—George—entered the room. He had his jacket off and he was wearing a holster, a holster which held two guns. Rohan's eyes latched onto those, watched those pistols longingly as the man took off the holster and draped it over the short wooden post at the foot of the bed. Like a man coming home and hanging up his hat.

Rohan watched him in apathetic silence.

George also had a bottle of tequila in hand, the contents of which was fueling the glittery, feverishly manic look in his eyes. Dark eyes which watched Rohan like a predator in the brush. And Rohan simply stared back. There was a blankness in his stare, an absence of fear. It caused the man named George to hesitate, to open his mouth to speak:

"What's wrong with you, Mick? You gone deaf and dumb or something?"

Silence.

George skirted around the edge of the bed, placed the bottle of tequila down on the little bedside table with a heavy _clank!_ He was looking Rohan up and down, and Rohan might have been tipped off to the danger in that gaze, if he wasn't so completely enveloped in his own private world of pain. As it was, he barely noticed George at all. His eyes were still on the guns slung around the bed-post, those two instruments like shiny brass keys that would allow him to unlock the door to his own salvation.

_He wanted to die…_

"Listen Mick-I've been following you. For the past three days. Trailing your sorry ass everywhere-"

Rohan glanced over at George, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time.

"-uninteresting work, that. Following someone. But you know what? I learned something interesting about you, Mick-"

-and a sense of foreboding, like fire, began to spread across his skin.

"-that you're a faggot and you've got a faggot boyfriend you like to go and visit on the sly. So, what do you do with him faggot? You suck his cock? Like to take it up the ass? Well, I've got something you're gonna looove, pretty boy-"

George attacked him. Rohan began to struggle as George sought to pin him to the bed. The smell of liquor, the rough brush of dreads, assaulted his senses. George continued to spout obscenities as he lay on top of him, as he felt his hair being ripped back. And suddenly, the desire to live came back to him full-force; the self-preservation instinct was there, alive and kicking. Rohan flailed. And, straining across the bed, he reached out to snag the tequila bottle that was left on the table with his left hand. George, unaware, was busy trying to get his hands down his pants. Rohan broke the bottle over the back of the head board, gripped the jagged neck in his hand-

-and raked the broken edge, like a knife, over George's throat, cutting him open.

Blood poured from the wound like a waterfall. It covered Rohan's shirt and face. George clawed helplessly at his throat, at the open gash that was leaking out his life's blood. He tried to rise up on his knees, tried to sit up, but there was too much of it. The effort was futile. After a few seconds-or perhaps minutes-there was a final, gutteral, gurgling sound, a single roll of the eyes, and then he simply collapsed in a bloodied heap on top of Rohan's handcuffed form.

He was dead.

Rohan dropped the bottle neck with an apathetic _ping!_ And, completely drenched in another man's blood, returned to staring off dazedly into space.

_He was dead, but there was still no escape..._

_End Chapter 9._

_So...this chapter was actually supposed to be longer than this, but an unexpected change in my work schedule ruined those plans, and sucked away my writing time. So I hope this will suffice for now..._

_Thanks for reading (and being patient)!  
_


	11. Chapter 10: Falling

_Alright, I know I said updates would be few, but-hey! Surprise! Here's another chapter! Work's been super-stressful for me and I've been channeling my angst into this fic. This was written at 4:30 a.m. 3 chapters in 5 days...not bad, eh? Especially on a 10 day work stretch (gah!)..._

Chapter 10: Falling

_It really couldn't get much worse_, he reflected.

His whole family was most likely dead…

His brother had been torched right in front of him…

And now he was trapped in a room with the dead body of a wanna-be rapist laying half on top of him…

Rohan scooted out from under the dead man; he could no longer abide his touch, even in his near-comatose state of apathy. Blood was drying to a deep earthy brown across his t-shirt and he could only imagine what the rest of him looked like. A sinister wine-colored stain was spreading across the quilt like the blackest of crude. George's body was face-down and eerily still. And yet, like a cheap shot in a horror movie, Rohan half expected him to reach out and make a grab for him again.

But nothing happened. There was only dark, dreadful silence.

_If you just sit here, they will come for you, _said a voice inside his head, a voice that sounded remarkably like that of his brother's. Then:

_They will come for you, and once they've seen what you've done, you'll be in a world of pain…_

_I'm already in a world of pain, _countered a second voice, sounding very much like his own.

_You say that now—_

_I want to die!_

_No, you don't, _countered that other, oh-so-familiar voice.

Silence. Rohan closed his eyes. He could feel the tears welling up, tears which he valiantly tried to fight down…

_Please..._

_Try..._

Rohan swallowed and opened his eyes. He looked down at the holster with the two guns slung around the bottom of the bed post.

_Just try._

Then he slowly, and painfully, began to scrunch down toward the edge of the bed, moving as far as the cuff would allow.

_Almost there..._

He could reach the base of the post okay with his foot. Now, if he could just hook his boot under the straps, pull the holster up and over the small post. He could probably get it just over the top, if he stretched far enough, if he strained—

_Just don't drop it._

_Focus…_

He pulled against the cuff, stretched himself as far as he could go. Then slowly, carefully, he inched the toe of his boot beneath the holster. Once it was in place, he began to inch it up the post. Slowly, and carefully—

_Don't drop it._

Little by little, inch by inch—

_If you drop it, you are dead in the water. Dead. In. The. Water._

It was almost to the top. Rohan hesitated. Because if he screwed this up, if it fell off and onto the floor, then—

_Don't think about it._

_Focus…_

His leg muscles were trembling. His body couldn't stretch any farther. He had to pull it over fast, rip it off like an old band-aid, but keep it hooked over his shoe—

_Now._

He pulled upwards and watched-with his heart pounding out a rapid tattoo of fear and trepidation and stress, stress, stress-as the holster flipped idly over the edge of the post. Flipped and remained precariously balanced on the toe of his shoe.

_Yes!_

Rohan blinked in disbelief as the holster slid down over his ankle. He couldn't believe he had it. He actually had it! He couldn't believe he had done it. He began to slowly ease his way back up the bed, pulling the guns with him, keeping the holster hooked around his ankle.

_What are you going to do once you get your hands on them? Hmm?_

Silence.

_Rohan? _The distinctive sound of his brother's voice filled his head. Loud and achingly clear, as if he were standing right next to him.

As if he were shouting in his ear…

_Don't you dare, Rohan…_

No response.

_Rohan, you put that gun to your head, and I'll never forgive you…_

Still no response.

Rohan slid into a sitting position. He had managed to drag the holster half way up the bed, and now he could easily grab one of the pistols with his free hand. The feel of that cold, hard metal was almost as comforting as his mother's arms…

_Rohan!_

_Don't!_

He hefted the gun in his hand, and stared at it. And paused. And considered…

_Don't!_

_God will never forgive you._

_I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT GOD!_

Finally, a response.

Rohan considered the gun in his hand, considered all his options.

_Rohan!_

He considered everything, then he raised the gun—

_Don't…_

-and fired two shots at the two-inch wooden slat that the cuff was attached to.

The sound was jarring in close quarters. He waited to see if a battalion of armed men would come bursting into the room. But no one came. It was just as silent, as dead as before. And then he realized that it was probably because they _expected_ to hear shots coming from inside the room—they expected him to die.

But he wasn't dead. No. And not only was he not dead, he was now free. He pulled the cuff through the splintered remains of the headboard slat. And then he laughed.

He laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. Not a happy, amused, or mirthful sound. No, it was the sound of a man who was very close to losing his shit…

…or who already had.

Rohan looked down at George's lifeless body. Out of the blue, he felt an embittered rage begin to well up inside of him, and he kicked the dead man, kicked him until he rolled off the edge of the bed, until he fell to the floor with a heavy _thud!_

_Bastard!_

Rohan checked the clips of the guns, to see how much ammo he had. Both were nearly full. And, still bloodied, with reddened streaks drying across his cheeks and chin like impromptu war paint, he got off the bed, pulled on the dead man's holster, and headed for the door.

_Not that way…_

Rohan froze with his hand poised above the door knob.

_Too hard._

He considered the room he was in, the situation he was in, and then he turned away from the door. Instead, he walked over to the window and pulled back the heavy dark curtains. He flipped the latch and pushed it up. Outside, night greeted him. Night pierced by sheets of pouring rain.

_There._

A few feet over was a beat-up looking fire escape, bent and twisted, trailing down the side of the building like a ladder sent down from heaven…

…or perhaps it was a stairway to hell.

Either way, Rohan ducked his head and slung his leg over the sill, determined to make the attempt. The landing was quite a ways over, but he thought he could jump it. It was possible he might make it…

…or, he could fall to his death.

And he was strangely okay with that.

He was hanging precariously from the windowsill. Rain beat down over him, drenched him to the skin, plastering his bloodied t-shirt to his frame. He shivered in the dark, and waited. Waited for the courage or numbing apathy or a sign from a useless God—

-then he jumped.

He hit the side of the fire escape with a reverberating _clang!, _his body and his boots and his holster connecting noisily with the wet metal. He clung fiercely to the iron railing, the wind nearly completely knocked out of him, a spreading ache in his rib cage, alive and throbbing, a twin to the ache from the lump on the back of his head. Everything on his body hurt. Finally, gasping like an asthmatic for breath, he began to haul himself up. Hauled himself up and onto the metal landing, clawing, reaching sightlessly in the rain-drenched dark for a hand-hold.

And nearby, a bullet pinged off the metal landing.

Rohan rolled over and clambered back against the building, just as a second shot whizzed by a couple of feet in front of him. _Shit! _Then he remembered, vaguely, something the Italians had said about having a sniper up on the roof…

_Goddam motherfucking piece of shit asshole…_

Gone were the thoughts of apathy and despair. Gone was the earlier wish to just lie down and die. There was nothing in him now but a pure, white rage, blinding in its intensity. Instead of trying to make his way down the fire escape, away from his unknown assailant, Rohan began to climb upward. He drew his own gun, and fired back at the roof.

He was beyond all logic by now. Beyond all fear of death.

He was going to kill the son-of-a-bitch who was shooting at him. Or he was going to die trying…

Utter blackness and icy sheets of unforgiving rain made visibility next to nothing. Shots were fired blindly, into the void. Rohan drew closer to the roof, closer to his unseen target. He had almost emptied one of the clips returning fire.

It did not matter.

Like a drowned man crawling onto the shore, Rohan slowly pulled himself over the edge of the roof. He could hear nothing, could see no one. Perhaps the bastard had left. Perhaps he had retreated inside, had gone to alert his piece-of-shit cronies. Perhaps—

-a punch landed straight in his eye, the eye that had been blackened in the bar fight from last week. Blindly, he stumbled, flailed on the edge of the rooftop. He reached out, and he caught something—a flash of metal, something silver. He grabbed onto it, but then it gave, snapped. Pieces of it scattered everywhere, winking like fireflies in the dark. A rosary. Rohan couldn't believe his eyes. Couldn't believe the shiny beads falling from his hand. Couldn't—

Another shot rang out. He felt a fire begin to spread through his chest, like someone had lit a match and thrown it there, and now there was pain, bright and new, like the lick of a candle flame singeing all along his nerves. The world began to waver. The rooftop tilted. And blood, like red rain, was falling to the ground. Falling like beads of broken glass. He felt fire, nothing but fire; the world tilted, and suddenly he was looking straight up into the blackened sky, looking into nothingness. The ground had completely fallen away. And that's when he realized: he was falling, falling…

_Falling into the void…_

_

* * *

_

And then…

And then, almost two whole days passed.

Two days passed, before the sanitation department came by to empty the dumpster that Rohan had fallen into. The dumpster where he would lay, unconscious and bleeding, for two days, balanced on the knife's edge of life and death.

Two days before he was taken to a hospital.

But he survived. It was what many would call a miracle. An act of God. But Rohan, upon waking, did not think it a miracle. And he no longer cared about God.

He was sorry.

So very sorry.

He was sorry he was still alive.

He was sorry he had managed to live through all the bullshit that had happened to him.

He was sorry he was left in excruciating pain, with only the horror of his own memories for company.

He was sorry that, when he was finally well enough to leave the hospital, he was collected by a pair of his distant cousins, who had come all the way from Cork City, Ireland. He also was sorry that, out of his entire Hell's Kitchen family, only his father had managed to survive, now bound to a wheel chair. And that he, too, was going back to Cork City with his cousins.

And Rohan's father blamed him for _everything. _

All of it.

His father blamed him, because there was no one left to blame.

No one left alive to accept blame, anyway.

And father and son could not abide one another's company. Could not tolerate each other, as each stood as a reminder to the other of all the ugly memories which surrounded them both. And so, when the day finally came that Rohan was able to walk the entirety of his cousins' field on his own two feet without pausing-without gasping for breath-that was the day Rohan announced his intention to leave. To leave and go to London. To go to his other uncle, Franklin, who had been disowned by the family years ago for being gay, and who now lived in London, successfully running an art gallery with his long-time, live-in lover. And that was also the day that Rohan announced to own his father that he too was gay. Which was the final straw on his father's overly sanctimonious, embittered back.

That was the day his father disowned him for good.

Which, in a strange, subconscious bid for self-punishment-an act motivated by both grief and despair-was exactly what Rohan wanted.

He wanted to forget about everything.

He wanted to forget his family.

He wanted to forget his father and his accusations.

And he wanted, most of all, to forget about himself, the self he had once been.

What he wanted, in the end, was to become someone else, a different person entirely…

_End Chapter 10._


	12. Chapter 11: Puzzles

_The beginning of this scene will seem familiar, he-he..._

_Also this is a very short chapter-my apologies..._

Chapter 11: Puzzles

_SPK Headquarters, present_

_Click._

_ Clack._

_ Clink._

A little silver ball hurled its way down an obstacle course of translucent yellow tubes, clanking from side to side as it went. Lying on his stomach on the floor, a young boy watched its progress, his only movement the movement of his eyes as they followed the ball on its rapid, hair-brained course. The ball continued to roll, until it finally exited the last tube and fell into a small plastic slot attached to a tiny crane, which lowered it into the welcoming seat of a see-saw, which then dropped it into another set of convoluted plastic tubes, these painted red. The boy watched as the silver ball continued on its journey, propelled by the unbreakable laws of physics, his restless brain already rushing ahead to mentally create another separate trail designed from dominoes and metal slides and tiny colorful roller coaster tracks set on a dais of plastic scaffolding. He envisioned it all, created it from the dust of his too-active brain, his mind altering and bending the structure in order to obey the laws of gravity, in order to bend gravity to his will. And so Near's mind went. It went on to build and add to the already complex Rube Goldberg structure, plotting and planning, even as half his brain was engaged somewhere else.

Even as half his brain was engaged with _someone_ else.

There was the shuffling of footsteps on the floor behind him. Without ever taking his eyes from the ball, Near took the photo of Mello from his pocket, lifted it over his shoulder and said to the man behind him:

"Commander Rester. Have you found him yet?"

There was a frustrated sigh, and a deep voice intoned, "No, not yet." A small pause, and then the voice said: "Near, are you...are you sure you're alright with working both these cases at once?"

The pale boy on the floor, dressed in equally pale pajamas, replied flatly: "I am perfectly capable of handling both, Commander Rester." He lifted a hand, twirled an index finger around a rogue lock of his bushy hair. "If that is all, Commander, you may consider yourself dismissed."

Near felt the older man's hesitation, felt it in his inability to turn and leave right away. It seemed he wanted to say something else. Near turned his profile slightly and asked, "Is there something more, Commander Rester?" There was the undeniable timbre of steel in his voice, the hint of an unbreakable metal.

"No. Nothing." Near heard Rester turn on his heel, heard his shoes slap noisily across the floor in the opposite direction. Near shut his eyes in quiet consternation. It wasn't exactly true, what he had told Rester. He wasn't exactly 'alright' with fighting a battle on two different fronts. But it didn't matter, because both had to be done. Both had to be fought. It was imperative. Near had two obstacles to clear, two objectives in mind:

_One: Corner and capture Kira, and..._

_ Two: Keep Mello from inadvertently getting himself killed._

Both objectives were hard. Both were equally fraught with difficulty. Even with Near's formidable, busy brain, it was hard to keep tabs on both. To try and stay a step ahead of both. And what was worse, Near had lost Mello's location again.

_Again._

_Mello, _thought Near, _Why must you always be such a danger to yourself? Why court such self-destruction?_ Near, for his part, would do anything in his power to protect Mello. Even if it meant protecting Mello from his own rash and impulsive judgments. Even if it meant interfering where he wasn't wanted. Even if his help was rejected outright by Mello himself.

Even if Mello scorned him for it.

And Near knew what Mello would say to such help. He could hear the conversation, clear as a cloudless day in his head. Mello would sneer at him and say, _"Go away Near. I am more than capable of handling things on my own."_

_ "No, you're not. You're demonstrably incapable of handling such a task."_

_ "And why do you care what happens to me anyway. Huh? Why are you dogging my steps like this?"_

_ "Don't you know?"_

_ "Know? Well, I can guess. It's because you feel guilty, because you beat me at school. Because you took a title that should have rightfully been mine. Because you did nothing to stop me when I left the orphanage all those years ago. Guilt-guilt is your motivating emotion here."_

_ "You're wrong, Mello. Wrong as usual. Guilt isn't the emotion driving me here at all..."_

"Near?"

Near blinked rapidly, the only sign that he'd been startled by the sound of his name being called. He had been so wrapped up in the imaginary conversation he was having inside his head, that he had failed to hear Halle's softer, stealthier approach. Like Rester, there was a note of concern in her voice. But unlike Rester, Near felt he could speak to Halle on a slightly more emotional level.

"I think I missed something," Near whispered. He turned to look over his shoulder at Halle. He watched her pale, delicately shaped eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about O'Malley," said Near in his usual soft, confident voice. "I think I may have overlooked something there."

"But Near, you did a full investigation on O'Malley. Into his life as Rohan McCready. You found his mob connections; you even found his possible connection to Mello. Isn't that everything?"

"No. It's not. I think I'm missing a piece of the puzzle." Near picked up a figure made out of legos and began to ruthlessly dismantle it, his handling of the toy his only outward expression of his inside frustration.

"But we got everything on O'Malley. Didn't we?"

"We got everything on Rohan McCready. The person he used to be." Near paused thoughtfully in the middle of removing a lego-shaped arm. "But not O'Malley; we don't really know that much about him."

Confusion cast horizontal lines across Halle's pretty face. "But we do know about O'Malley, Near. He lived with his uncle, Franklin McCready, in London for about four years. In fact, his uncle's gallery is where he had his first showing of his photography. After that, his career took off. He's been doing that ever since. And for the past year, he's been living here in L.A."

"Something's still not right," Near muttered irritably to himself as much as to Halle. He viciously yanked off a blue lego leg. "I've missed something," he repeated. Near stared off into space, and thought back to the confrontation at O'Malley's apartment. How the photographer had relapsed into violence which such fluid ease. And Irish mobsters weren't known to be so forgiving...

Near straightened himself into a sitting position on the floor. He looked at Halle and said, "Bring me the file on O'Malley. I'm going to look at it again."

Halle narrowed her eyes, but answered with an obedient, "Yes, sir." Near listened as her heels clicked smartly across the SPK's immaculate tiled floor.

Near hesitated only for a brief moment, before taking out Mello's photo and looking at it. He spoke directly to the photo, because it was all he had, because it was all he could do. This small image, this totem, was all he had for a partner:

"Mello, I really hope I can solve this puzzle before it kills you..."

_End Chapter 11._


	13. Chapter 12: Regret

Chapter 12: Regret

Evening light was steadily creeping over the sheets of the bed, like encroaching ocean waves over the sand at high tide. O'Malley scrunched his eyes against the intrusive light and shifted his head to the side to face the wall. He buried his face into his pillow, which was warm and smooth and satiny to the touch. He shifted his face again, groggily, and suddenly his pillow disappeared, slid suddenly from beneath him, leaving his face planted firmly in the harsh surface of the mattress.

"I'm going now," said a deep voice from above him.

O'Malley's eyes snapped open, and reality began to reassert itself. His pillow wasn't a pillow, but a living, breathing person. He heard the nearby whisper of heavy fabric, the clink of a metal belt buckle. He turned his head to squint at the man standing by the bed, the man who bent to snap up a fallen shirt from the floor. His bare torso was tiger-striped with all sorts of tribal tattoos and works of art and various dark, inked-on symbols. In the orange blaze of the evening sun, they looked spot-lit, like a moving tapestry of art come to life.

"You made me face plant into the mattress," O'Malley muttered sullenly.

"I'm sure you're used to it," said the man, in an unusually bitter tone of voice. This got O'Malley's attention and he said:

"Hey, who pissed in your cheerios?"

The man yanked his shirt over his head with rough, angry movements. He stopped to glare at O'Malley, who lay half-covered in the sheet, his eyes piercing him in a laser-like way that made O'Malley positively squirm. Then the man's shoulders visibly slumped, and he said, in a defeated voice:

"You. You're the one who 'pissed in my cheerios,' as you so eloquently put it."

"What? What did I do?"

"It's not what you _do_. It's what you _don't_ do. You don't tell me things, Mal. In fact, you tell me absolutely nothing at all."

"What?"

"And you know absolutely everything about me. Everything. But I don't know jack shit about you. It's not fair-"

"Demo, what the fuck does it matter?"

The man grabbed up his jacket and started for the door. "I can't keep doing this with you. I can't. It's been almost a year. I can't keep coming up here to see you like this."

"Fine. So don't come anymore. Go home to your fucking boyfriend," said O'Malley coldly, harshly. It was the wrong thing to say, because suddenly the other man was striding back to the bed, was suddenly up in his face.

"Because...because I don't really want to do that. But goddam it, you leave me no choice. I ask you things about yourself, and you either lie, or you avoid answering entirely." The man reached out to gently touch the puckered, silvery patch of skin over his bare shoulder, the exit wound from the bullet he'd taken all those years ago. "Like the story behind this, for instance."

O'Malley slapped his hand away. "Don't fucking touch me."

The man glared. "I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd never laid eyes on you. If I'd known the kind of person I was going to get when I hired you as a photographer to do a book about my work, about my tattoos, then I would have gone running, screaming, in the other direction." The man paused then, and despite all the ink and the fierceness of his imposing appearance, he looked vulnerable, like a man who was almost ready to break down and cry. "God, if you would only give me _something_, tell me anything about yourself. _Anything_-"

"-I can't fucking do that," O'Malley whispered, almost regretfully. It was as close to speaking the truth as he would ever get.

Anger blazed like a roaring fire in the other man's eyes. Blazed, then suddenly went out, leaving only a sad, desperate longing in his face. O'Malley began to internally panic; he knew that look. He'd seen it before. It was the same look that Arthur had on his face all those years ago, when he was standing in the doorway of the dark room. The moment where he had been about to tell O'Malley that he loved him, that he was going to leave his lover for him-

_No! _screamed the voice of self-preservation in his head, _Don't let him say it!_

"Go home to your fucking boyfriend!" O'Malley suddenly yelled. "Go on, and I don't care if I ever see your lousy face again!"

The man staggered back as if he'd been punched. Hurt and anger mixed in a soupy, malicious gumbo over his features. "Fine. I'm going. And for the record, you can go fuck yourself..."

O'Malley watched the other man stomp his way out the front door, slamming it so hard that the photo frames shook on the walls. O'Malley dropped his head back into the sheets and pounded the mattress with his fist in frustration. _Goddam Adrian Demosthenes. Fucking Demo. Fucking bastard. I hate him, and I hate his tattoos. I wish I'd never fucking laid eyes on him._

Yet even as O'Malley cursed the other man with every fiber of his being, even as he ranted and raved inside his own head, he was struck, out of nowhere, by a sudden overwhelming sense of loss, by an alien feeling of loneliness. And Truth, being the fucking ugly bitch that O'Malley said she was, made the reality of the situation known...

The reality was this: he hadn't really wanted to drive Demo away. Not really. Not like this. And for once, the secret burden of his past felt unbearable, felt impossible for him to carry. It felt too heavy, like a weight that was crushing him, like a stone grinding him into dust. He felt too drained, too weak to manage it; he felt the years of denial settling across his back like a perching, immovable beast, like a vulture of entropy.

And so, sitting alone in the middle of his bed, O'Malley began to cry-_really cry_-shedding silent, pent up tears of regret...

* * *

The brass bell over the door of the Symposium jingled merrily as O'Malley trudged through it looking rumpled and out of sorts, his shades firmly in place and his camera bag slung over his shoulder. He headed for one of the tables in the little cafe beyond the spiral book columns, the cafe that he hadn't visited in several weeks. Sitting at a table was Danny, wearing his ever present red beanie cap and a new pair of tortoise shell framed glasses. He looked up from a magazine as O'Malley approached the table and said, without inflection:

"Dude, you look like shit. Hungover again?"

"No. I just had a really shitty day."

"Why shitty?"

"You know, people."

"What? All people? Does that include me?"

"No. Just people I'm currently fucking. Are we currently fucking?"

"Not the last time I checked."

"Good."

"Oh, and just so you know, I wouldn't sleep with you in a million years."

"Excellent." Then: "Hey, Miriam-can I get my usual?"

* * *

About an hour later and O'Malley was walking out of the Symposium, a welcome feeling of normalcy settling back over his life like a warm, fuzzy blanket. He was starting to feel good again. Whole again. Well, almost. Except for the small fact that all his relationships were complete bullshit, and he was pretty sure that the feds-led by that curly-haired kid-were now on to him, everything in his life was a-okay, the universe in perfect, total alignment. Such was the low bar that he set for his existence...

O'Malley cut down an alleyway beside one of the many identical brick buildings that lined the same street as the Symposium. It was fully dark now, and a distant street lamp threw his shadow out on the ground before him, outlining him, stretching him, doubling his length by degrees. O'Malley slumped a little under the weight of his bag; at least he'd finally been able to give Danny a set of shots from one of Jaded Sadie's concerts that he actually liked, that were almost decent. Surely that small deed had to get him a little bit of good karma? Didn't it? O'Malley continued on down the alley, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts...

Suddenly he noticed that there were several other shadows crowding around his own. O'Malley stopped, staring down at the ground before him. He swallowed once before turning around to face the three figures that had followed him down the alleyway.

He unzipped his bag, revealing his camera. "Look, if this is some kind of mugging, then this is all I got that's worth anything of value-"

"-this isn't a mugging," said the voice of a man, an unknown figure who slid forward, away from the rest. He was back lit by the distant light, his face encased in shadow.

O'Malley looked wide-eyed. "It's not? You sure? Because either way, I'm gonna have to replace the lens on this thing. Luckily, I already have a replacement back at my apartment-"

"-this isn't a mugging. And what the hell are you talking about-" said the man, who didn't get to finish his sentence, because-

-O'Malley surged forward and smashed the heavy black and chrome camera across the bridge of the man's nose. As he buckled and fell, O'Malley caught him, dragging a .38 from the holster inside the man's own jacket. He fired the gun over the fallen man's shoulder, shooting one of his other assailants point blank in the face. He shot the third man in the leg, aiming purposefully for his femoral artery. O'Malley watched him as he shrieked and fell, the gun he'd drawn clattering uselessly to the ground. O'Malley stood back up, allowing the body of the first man-his impromptu shield-to slide gracelessly to the ground with a muted thud. O'Malley had hit the bridge of his nose hard enough to send bone fragments flying back into the soft tissue of his brain. He wouldn't be getting up again.

O'Malley looked down at his camera. As predicted, the lens was broken. "Knew that was going to happen," he muttered distractedly to himself. He shoved the instrument back into its bag and stepped over the two dead bodies to the third man who was writhing in agony on the ground.

O'Malley kicked the man's gun away, sent it spiraling off into the darkness. O'Malley clamped his foot over the man's windpipe, pointed the .38 at his forehead, and said, "Hey, you. Stop squalling long enough to tell me who sent you..."

The man sputtered pathetically. "Don't. Don't kill me," he gasped. Meanwhile, a growing pool of inky black blood, black as a seal's coat, was spreading across the ground beneath him.

"You're as good as gone, so you might as well tell me." O'Malley put more weight on the man's windpipe. His face was a stony mask. "Was it that British kid with the curly hair? Huh? Because I'm telling you, you have the distinct look of the feds about you. That blazer of yours screams 'government issued'..."

The man said nothing, merely groaned in agony, clawing uselessly at O'Malley's boot. O'Malley lifted his foot, and the man rolled onto his side, grasping at his injured leg. "Fucking useless and as green as an ear of unripened corn," O'Malley muttered with disgust. Without a flicker of conscience, without hesitation, O'Malley plugged two shots into the back of the man's head. He went still, and the alleyway was once again completely silent.

O'Malley dropped the .38 into his bag with his camera. He then drew from inside it an artist's brush, it's dark sable hair as sleek and as shiny as the wet pool of blood on the ground. O'Malley bent and dipped the brush into the inky blackness, and began writing, his arm moving in sweeps and arcs across the pavement. As he painted with his gory material, he whispered angrily to no one at all:

"So you wanna play with me, little boy? Huh? Well, then, we will fucking _play_. And I'm going to make sure you regret ever trying to fuck with me..."

_End chapter 12._

_Well, I'm off to work on the chapter of my other fic., which should be up on my birthday. Yey! Happy birthday to me-I got stuff done on both my fic.s this week! Huzzah!__  
_


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